


You Are Your Own Weakness

by bottomdean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blood and Violence, Bottom Dean Winchester, Destiel - Freeform, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Hurt Dean Winchester, Emotionally Repressed Dean Winchester, Fluff, Frottage, Gay, Gay Male Character, Gay Sex, Hurt Castiel, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Loss of Parent(s), Loss of Virginity, M/M, Major Character Injury, Protective Castiel, Protective Dean Winchester, Psychological Torture, Self-Denial, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Smut, Supportive Sam Winchester, Top Castiel, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Top Dean Winchester, Torture, destiel smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 05:07:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16401878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottomdean/pseuds/bottomdean
Summary: Fuzzy toes rubbed gently against bare ones, his own clenching and unclenching in response. He could hear the wisp of Cas’ breath ghosting right across his face—so close that he could smell the chocolate fading along with the evening light. They were swallowed by darkness itself except for the glow of the television and soft lamp light nursing the room. It allowed just enough light that Dean could see the black and blue of iris and pupil saturating the shadows. He could see the slight stubble around his chin and sugar plum-pink lips the angel always seemed to sport. He heard the soft tick of a gulp, but he couldn’t remember if it was he who had made it or the shallow-breathing angel lying directly in front of him.The only thing he could see was Cas, the only thing he could feel was Cas, the only thing he could smell was Cas, the only thing he could think about was Cas.Dean was drowning in a safe place.





	You Are Your Own Weakness

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, guys! So, this is my first really complete fanfic that I've ever actually taken really seriously, and I've been working on this (proofreading, editing, not SLEEPING) for MONTHS and I'm finally done. I've definitely come a long way with this. I came up with the idea during November 2017 and here we are now, October 2018. I don't know if I just write slow, or if it was the countless rewrites, but here we are, 11 months later (finally). I really tried to make this interesting, and I hope you'll give me a chance. Happy reading!

The sound of shattering glass deafeningly echoed in his ears—throughout his skull, rattling it where it sat. It seemed to be on replay; ringing through his ears with an impatient urgency and the insistence of a small child—poking and prodding until it got its way.

It always got its way.

Dean not only heard, but he saw. He saw himself in his reflection; beaten and bloody and damaged and cold—goosebumps erupting along the skin he could see. His busted, dripping lip framed his ever-bruising cheekbones, highlighting a few (more than a few) leftover scars from past, abhorrent years. If he didn’t  _ know  _ that it was him—his reflection—he never would have recognized the man staring back at him. He’s still not sure if the man with the lifeless eyes and sunken limbs was really him, or if his exhausted mind couldn’t tell the difference between illusions and reality anymore.

He also saw the demons that held him unconsciously—or maybe consciously, he didn’t know—tighten the constricting grip they had on his shoulders and neck, surely engraving bruises in his skin. The same demons that wanted him to watch his brother’s death, and then his own, one by one. He saw he suffering of Sam’s body, but the always kind, gentle eyes, pleading him to look away. 

He didn’t look away.

As well as hearing and seeing, Dean felt. He felt everything, but he also felt nothing.

Dean Winchester felt numb. That was the only way to describe it—this emptiness. On the outside, bruised and bleeding and shivering, he felt so much pain that there was none at all. He thinks that this is what death feels like as it finally comes, and he wonders if it’s like this for everyone. His mind shuts down everything he feels—his nerve endings, the roots of his body—so that he can go in peace, free of worry and the pain in his chest.

But his body did nothing to quiet the terrifying thoughts in his head. It was odd, really. He knew the thoughts were there, bouncing around the walls of his brain, but he just didn’t care. His mind was  _ numb _ , and feeling was hard. How could you feel something when it was already so broken?

His heart broke for his brother. It ached; it screamed. It pulsed through his veins, burning hot with rage that he could not use, for he was tied in every aspect of the word. Sam did  _ not _ deserve this. It was  _ his _ hunt in the first place, not Sam’s, and now they were both paying the price for his carelessness—the recklessness he wore like a sheathe. This was Dean’s fate to bore, and now Sam shares it, something that Dean will hold himself to for eternity.

Dean was foolish. He had underestimated the demons’ numbers; something stupid that Dean thought he had under control in his over-confident mind. He had went in expecting only, what, a few? At most? But he went out…

No. There was no getting out for Sam or Dean Winchester.  _ That _ was what Dean felt with his whole being.

* * *

“Dean?” A reproachful sigh was breathed into the cool air that engulfed them so. “Dean, are you even listening?” Dean snapped his head to the right, in the direction of the cross, gruff voice. He was met with fair, boundless blue eyes, searching in the midst of his clouded ones. “Dean, you need to stop thinking about it. You’re okay now, please believe me when I say you’re fine-”

“I’m far from  _ fine _ , Cas. And so are you. And Sam. None of us are  _ fine _ . Hell, we’ve never  _ been _ fine. What’s so hard about that?!” Dean’s scuffed and mucky shoes carried him down the soft carpeted hallway of the hotel, all the way to the end where he was met with doors, each of more exemplary than each one before it. He didn’t understand why the expensive hotel was a necessity, spending the night in his prized Chevy Impala wasn’t exactly uncommon or unwanted, but he was tired and worn-out, and didn’t feel like fighting with Sam again tonight, especially after everything that he had just put him through.

“The hunt is over with, Cas. All the demons are dead, and that’s good enough for me. It should be enough for you, too.” And with a tone that shut the door on the conversation, “We’re done talking about it.”

Turning the unlock the ivory white door given to them—bearing the number  _ 67– _ Dean reached up to swat the back of his neck. He’d been sure something had stung—burned, even. Perhaps it was just the tireless gaze Dean could feel wafting off the dark-haired angel from behind, smoking in tendrils. The feeling made him shiver, though it wasn’t new. The angel had a hard time reading body languages and expressions, even with Dean, whom he felt closest to.

But conversation closed or not, Cas was never the best at following Dean’s wishes. “That’s the thing, Dean! You  _ haven’t _ talked about it. I know how you think; I know  _ what _ you think. If you don’t talk about it now, you think you won’t ever have to. But if you don’t talk about it, you’re going to think about it, trapped inside of your own head, enclosed in a cage where not even Sam has the key. In a place where you surround yourself in your burdens. You’re going to overthink it, it’s best to talk about it now before-”

Dean whirled, the sharp point of the key wavering at Cas almost as an accusation. It said what his words couldn’t. “Before I  _ what _ , Cas? ‘ _ Overburden _ ’ myself?” He  _ can’t _ talk. It was bad enough that Sam had opted for two seperate rooms, leaving him and Cas to share one. He had wanted them to “work things out.” What did that even mean?

“What do you want to talk about, Cas? How you almost got yourself  _ killed _ ?”

“Dean, you know it’s not that simple-”

“Oh, I think it is.” Turning his back on Cas, he shoved the polished silver key into the lock and twisted, surprising even himself when he heard the click of the lock and not the snapping of a key. Flinging the door open and trudging inside, Dean’s jaw dropped before he had the chance to stop it. It was… stunning. 

He simply could not think of another word for it.

The first thing Dean noticed was the staggering size of the place. Though saying it like that would make it sound as if he had just walked into the Castle of Hogwarts. (What? He listens to Sam and Charlie’s debates sometimes when there’s nothing exciting on the TV—though to be honest, The Hallmark Channel with Spanish subtitles holds more of his interest than listening to whether Harry should have married Hermione or Ginny for the hundredth time.)

In reality, it wasn’t the most gargantuan of places, but it was bigger and more extravagant than what he was really used to. And though it was bigger, Dean still felt enclosed inside of his own mind and soul. And even though Cas had healed his bloody bruises and wounds, he still felt dirty. Haunted.

_ Small. _

Anyone else that didn’t know the trench-coated angel as well as Dean Winchester would have missed the small, almost inaudible intake of breath from the doorway. Even though Dean had moved further into the room, he had still caught it. It was as if he had felt it. As if he had done it himself. After years of searching the angel for any sort of emotion, whether it be in his face or in his posture, he knew how to read Castiel as easily as a small children’s book.

But this time there were no pages to read.

Castiel should not have been even slightly impressed by this place. He had spent millions— _ billions _ —of years in heaven’s most finest palace.  _ A place for God himself _ .

This should have been a rat’s nest to him. But for a reason Dean could not explain… it wasn’t. Not in the slightest—not if the drawn eyebrows and open-mouthed assertion were any clue.

The big picture of what Dean was trying to say was that he could read the angel’s emotions, just not the thought process behind them. It was a confusing process.

For Dean, it was sort of a big deal, yeah. The last time he had stayed in a hotel this nice had been… well, he can’t even remember. Nevertheless if it had ever even happened. His life was built around cramped and dirty motel rooms, not polished wood floors, city-view, double-king-bed hotels. It was foreign, though not unwelcome.

But Cas… Cas has known nothing but heaven’s finest. And finest for Dean meant a blanket without holes or an adjustable thermostat.

Was it pity Cas felt for him?

But, a small voice in the back of his head told him, that was practically the only emotion he’d never actually directed toward the emerald-eyed man. Hatred, love, adoration, care, devotion are all commonly expressed feelings passed like electricity between the two; starting at the tips of their fingers and toes and ending at the quirk of a smile—an accusing shout. Sometimes Dean just didn’t know what to do with it all. With every achingly consuming glance shared, he felt overwhelmed. It was like drowning in a pit of fire—the two opposing elements neutralizing each other just enough to keep him alive. It was like that feeling of being just under the surface of sleep but at the same time being  _ just  _ conscious enough to hear conversations in the room and respond to your name. 

Why did it feel like Dean always responded to the angel, even when he didn’t call his name.

Friends have interesting ways of showing they care, don’t they? Or maybe that was just Dean and Cas.

Because he did love Cas. As blunt as that may be. His best friend was the sole purpose for his faith. Even though he knew other angels existed (he had come face to face with many of the winged-bastards), he believed in only one. And that was Castiel—the only person who knew him better than even his brother. And he knew for a fact that he knew Dean better than he knew himself. He didn’t know himself at all.

Not anymore. Not since tonight.

* * *

Being shoved to the ground wasn’t the worst thing in the world. It was probably the nicest thing the demons could have done to him, though it sure wasn’t out of the kindness off their dead, rotted hearts.

His foot was twisted at a very obscene angle, even for him, and he found that the more he struggled, the more his foot pulsed out globs of blood. There was an unseen pressure on his foot, making it feel more like a constricting, unmovable weight rather than just him being weak, nerves dead and severed.

He heard his father’s enraged voice from somewhere deep within his head, breaking the cage of where he had locked it away many, many years ago. “ _ Get up, boy, you hear me?  _ My _ son will not be mistaken as a weakling. I raised you better than that. Or do you want to be weak? Is that what you want to be known as in this family—in  _ my _ family? Is that how you want to be seen in my eyes? _ ” His mind couldn’t help but connect the parallels from when he had been nine and exhausted to now, thirty-nine and weary.

The room spun in circles, the blood splatters making patterns in their rotation. The pain was making him dizzy. Helplessly, he couldn’t turn away from his brother even if he wanted to. He was going to be the last thing Dean saw, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t okay with that. It was always him and Sammy, always him and Sammy. It’ll end with him and Sammy, too. Tired and weak, it’ll end.

The end couldn’t come sooner though, it seemed. His arms were numb where they were tied behind him, his fingers smashed and filled with dirt trying to smuggle and taint its way into his bloodstream. His shirt was torn to shreds and his belt was being used as a gag in his own mouth. He was embarrassed. And so tired, oh so very tired.

Dean Winchester, in that very moment, wanted nothing more than to succumb to the grace of death.

* * *

Dean didn’t know what he was doing until he was kicking his shoes and socks off in the gray and beige-tiled bathroom. He couldn’t remember walking in here, if he had said anything to Cas. Had he slammed the door? Did Cas flinch? He hoped he didn’t.

He couldn’t remember anything. All he knew was that he wanted the steam of a long, hot shower to wash away any and all memories of tonight. To wash any recollection down the drain with the excess soap and water. To send them down into the sewers where they belonged—where they deserved to stay.

But even all of that wouldn’t be enough to replenish any of the feelings he had lost in that warehouse. Maybe long before that.

Dean may be able to push away the thoughts of tonight and that cold warehouse, and Cas may have healed his exterior wounds with an intimate, sacred part of him, but there was no fixing what was on the inside. Dean couldn’t find what he had lost. Or, what his life had stolen from him. Either way, it was long gone, and Dean had a hollow feeling that it may have been gone for a while now.

Tonight hadn’t stolen a part of him. Tonight just opened his eyes up to the fact that it wasn’t there. And the scary part was that he couldn’t recall how long it hadn’t been.

He wasn’t whole, and he knew that. It made him feel like a freak, like he didn’t belong in this world, but he also didn’t care what he or other people thought. He didn’t care; he didn’t have a care in the world.

He didn’t feel, either. He felt the sting of the unbalanced, too hot water hitting his bare backside. He felt it collecting at his feet, squirming and splashing between his toes. He felt the clean porcelain of the shower on the pads of his feet and the water sticking his hair to his forehead. He felt his cheeks staining red from the temperature. But he didn’t  _ feel _ anything. He didn’t  _ want _ to feel anything.

There was too much commotion and action and feelings bombarding his mind that he couldn’t feel it anymore. It was like saying a word too many times—after a while the word doesn’t have the same meaning as it used to. You can’t remember what the word means anymore. Or you put too much thought in trying to decipher it that it just ties itself into more meaningless knots and becomes all the more blurry and perplexed.

His  _ life _ was blurry and perplexed. Hollow.

That’s it, really.

Hollow.

Dean felt hollow.

All of his organs were healthy and intact, there was blood pumping through his veins. His heart was beating. His bones were straight. But those were the only things with enough strength to hold him together, keep him whole. There were no emotions or feelings to keep him grounded. Nothing to keep his feet down, his head up.

His footing was gone; head hanging limp.

There was nothing to keep him from snapping at Cas or his brother—or anyone for that matter—and there was nothing telling him to stop and think for a few minutes, a few hours. He had time to. But is that a way to waste the one thing he did have?

Is that a way to waste his time?

But he couldn’t force himself to stop and think about it, even though he knew it was probably the right thing to do, what he knew he should do. Even if he had wanted to, he knew he wouldn’t, because Dean doesn’t feel like breaking himself up more—breaking up what’s left.

But despite all of that, there was still nothing stopping his narcissistic brain from reminding him about everything, playing before him trauma upon trauma, as well as his surroundings, even though he tried his best to ignore it.

Like his belt where it lay mockingly on the floor, just like Dean had hours prior, teeth marks embedded in the torn material where he had, one, tried to gnaw through it, or, two, tried his best to inflict a little more pain and hurt and flaming nerve endings in order to forget what had been going on at that very moment. Like the fact that his brother had been teetering along the edge of darkness and he wouldn’t ever see him or Cas again. Because Dean was next to join the parade of death that was now so much more a reality than it had ever been before. Because he  _ knew _ that he was going to die so very soon. Until Cas… Cas-

He’s not going to think about it.

_ He’s not going to think about it. _

Dean hadn’t a clue how much time he had spent standing under the hot spray, but when he started to feel enclosed and his chest tightened in the fight for breath, and when there was more sweat on his body than water, he turned the blazing temperature down, cooling his overheated skin with something a bit chillier.

And by chillier, he meant bone-chilling, teeth-chattering, skin-freezing water.

It reminded him of the painful cold he had felt in the warehouse, but he wasn’t thinking about all the dark, twisted things anymore. He couldn’t, not when his body was convulsing in its search for heat, and soon all thoughts about the demons, the warehouse, the death, they were all gone.

He had had enough self-control to stay standing for the first few minutes, but had eventually ended up sitting down so as not to fall over once his vision had started to gray at the edges and his head felt as if it would spin right off his shoulders in time with the rotation of the earth.

He didn’t feel anymore.

* * *

Only when he couldn’t take the pulsing of his temples anymore did he shut off the water. His head pounded, and his face was wet and salty from cold water and hot tears. His face burned from where the tears had made tracks along his skin—the heat of his tears a total contrast from the water cold enough to turn his blood to ice. His tears were thawing his skin, body recoiling from the burning sting.

Whether the tears were from the brutal water, or rather from his father’s voice resounding through his head on a high volume, he didn’t know. The images and voices in his head were so real it was as if John had been above him, shouting for him to get up, shouting at him to be stronger, shouting at him to stop being weak.

He felt like a child again.

At first, the cold water had been to cool off and get his bearings. But soon enough, he had found himself unable to shut it off, just like the voices in his head. It hurt in a sick sort of way, but Dean craved it. He had wanted to keep going—he  _ could _ keep going.  _ He wasn’t weak anymore _ .

And maybe mentally he could’ve powered through, but his body definitely couldn’t have. It shivered and crowded in on itself now, his shoulders and back hunched as he sat in a ball underneath the shower head, fighting to absorb heat from anything it could touch. Was it the lighting or did the tips of his fingers look blue?

He thought his teeth surely should’ve cracked or at least chipped by now from the dance of fervent chattering they engaged in now, ignoring any form of consent. Each time a chilled droplet of water slid down his neck, either from the leaking shower head above or his newly wet hair, a fresh wave of chills ran rampant through his bones, seamlessly through his soul.

This… this feeling—it was much worse than hell, as hard as that may be to believe.

In hell, there was a physical presence, a presence carving sins into your skin. Sometimes more than your skin—they pierced and shredded your soul. It was painful. But the difference was, you  _ knew _ what was happening, you knew what pain to expect. You knew when it’d stop.

But somehow…  _ not _ knowing… that was worse. Dean didn’t know what was happening to him, why he felt so… insubstantial. He didn’t know why all he felt was pain, why all he saw was death. And worst of all, he didn’t know when it would stop— _ if _ it would stop.

This was a train ride worse than hell ever was.

* * *

If given the chance, Dean Winchester would’ve stayed exactly where he was all night. Freshly showered (though he was still slightly shivering, skin ice cold) and in a pair of dark red sweatpants and an old gray t-shirt he had forgotten he’d had at some point, he was all ready to go to bed and drown tonight’s events in some well-deserved sleep.

And, believe it or not, there were two seperate bedrooms along with two seperate beds.

Dean would call that a win.

He had scoped out both, but Cas had obviously let him have the bigger of the two, already having gotten comfortable (if you call changing into a pair of fuzzy socks comfortable) in the smaller room while he had been in the shower. The walls were painted a shade of gray that reminded Dean of all the old misshapen stones Sammy and him had skipped while they were kids and had stumbled upon a deserted river bank leeched in the depths of Montana.

This hotel wasn’t like normal hotels, Dean concluded. This hotel wasn’t bright and blindingly white, almost mockingly so; this one was darker. If it was the dappled tawny curtains and slightly worn paint coating the walls, whether it be the rain calmly beating on the windows, or the homey vibe the whole space radiated that made it seem not as a one-night-stay rather than a place made to feel more like a  _ home _ , and not an untimely shelter.

Dean felt as if he knew this place.

It reminded him of how things used to be. Simpler times. Why? Dean didn’t know. He just knew it wasn’t because of how this certain hotel looked—why would that remind him of his childhood when he never had the privilege of experiencing luxury of this sort. Not that this was luxury or anything. Luxury would be not being alone tonight, even though every muscle, every cell in his body, tried to squash that internal feeling in its tracks before the emotional roller coaster of hope soared every which way through his chest, connecting to his brain and to his smile.

A knock sounded at the door.

It wasn’t forceful or intruding, but it wasn’t small and misguided. It was a soft knock, and, though there was no way to tell for sure, it sounded hesitant. Had there been a lot of thought put into that one small knock? Were they reconsidering? Or were they firm, standing their ground.

Nobody knew for sure—the knocker  _ or _ the receiver—but could that one tiny action change the course of the night?

The knock itself couldn’t change anything, of course, but the people behind it could.

And Dean was open to change.

He knew, without looking, that behind the door stood Castiel in his normal get-up, though minus the shoes and plus the very colorful fuzzy socks he seemed to like so much. Dean had gotten them for him for Christmas the month prior and it seemed that Cas has worn them everyday since. Has he even washed them? Dean wrinkled his nose and hoped for both their sakes that the angel knew how to work a washing machine.

As previously thought, Dean opened the door to his room to find the angel clad in everything described beforehand. His gaze hung down at the bright tufts of fuzz covering his toes, trench-coated arm extended in place to hover just a few inches from where the door had just been and was now almost grasping Dean’s chest instead. Dean took a step back.

Castiel looked up from where he had been smiling softly at his feet. If Dean would’ve known that’s all it took to keep him entertained, he would’ve bought five times as many pairs of them ages ago. Maybe he could scrounge up just enough money to buy him another pair—maybe these ones electric blue to match his striking irises. The same pair that bore into Dean at this very moment.

Without further explanation, the raven-haired angel thrust a silvery-blue bowl overflowing with yellow kernels of popcorn at Dean’s chest. “I, uh, you know… thought we could watch a movie, or something. I mean, if you want to. Since we’re stuck here together, just the two of us, we might as well make the most of it,” Cas began, slightly pink in the face. His gaze never directly aligned with Dean’s, his icy blue fix favoring Dean’s clothed shoulder rather than his own gaze, and his rainbow-covered feet did a dance of their own where they fidgeted on the floor. Dean got the sense that if his hands weren’t holding the popcorn bowl, they’d be pulling at the sleeve of his trench coat or running through his already wild mane of hair—a few nervous habits he’d picked up on over the years. Dean could tell that Cas thought he was going to decline his offer, and his point was only proven further when the angel’s gaze— _ finally _ —met his own.

There, he could see the traces of doubt hiding within the mellowy ink of his eyelashes, hints of hesitation taking shelter within his ashen pupils. Dean wanted to recolor his eyes—every detail—but without all the negative emotions broadcasted there. Though he had a feeling he wouldn’t ever be able to capture the unique iridescent blue—the blue that only Cas had—expressed within his bold, radiant irises.

Dean wanted to say no. In fact, his brain was already working on overdrive trying to muster some excuse as to why he couldn’t. ‘ _ It’s been a long day, I’m really tired _ ,’ and ‘ _ Maybe another time; raincheck? _ ’ were the first to come crashing through his mind like tidal-waves. They rode out onto the tip of his tongue, but he just…  _ couldn’t _ for the love of anything bring himself to say them. The more time that passed with Cas’ question unanswered brought more linger of doubt and dejection onto his delicate features and Dean couldn’t be the reason to see his best friend so sad.

He could feel the bowl’s warmth without touching it and smell the freshly buttered popcorn without really trying to. Dean didn’t think he knew the meaning of alluring until it hit him square in the face in the figure of a blue popcorn bowl. And, besides, he’d said he didn’t want to be alone tonight anyways, right?

So Dean powered down the part of his brain searching for an excuse and instead let his lips quirk up, just a tiny bit, at how obvious it was that Cas was trying to make an effort with him, especially after the way Dean’s been acting. He really couldn’t thank him enough. “I’ll get the hot chocolate,” came stumbling out of his mouth with an ever-present smile growing infatuatedly larger by the second. Cas looked up, startled, obviously prepared for rejection. And then he smiled a wide, face-deforming grin. Little crinkles formed at the very edges and Dean couldn’t help but feel as if this was the first time that he, Dean Winchester, had genuinely smiled in a long time. 

He was glad it was with Cas.

* * *

In this moment, Dean felt infinite. Just lying there with Cas, lazily sipping hot chocolate in winter themed mugs (Cas had automatically given Dean the snowman one, murmuring something about how the black eyes freaked him out, which Dean couldn’t help but find ironic), and laughing every now and then at something the two had lightly carried on about. It was easy, Dean thought. Much too easy that Dean kicked himself for not really paying attention before.

The angel made all of his demons go away. It sounded so stupidly obvious when you thought about it like that, so much so, that Dean had had to repeat the words a few times to make sure he understood the meaning correctly. After all, nothing is ever that simple, is it?

But, the thing is, it  _ was _ that simple with Cas. His head cleared, his skin warmed, his heart lightened without the baggage of repressed thoughts clogging his veins. His laugh came easier—more genuine than before. 

Dean truly did feel infinite.

Or perhaps it was the movie putting that line in his head.

When Cas had asked what movie he had wanted to watch, he had quickly opted for an old childhood favorite of Sammy’s.  _ The Perks of Being a Wallflower _ wasn’t necessarily his favorite, but it had never failed to put a smile to Sam’s face which made the constant rewatches (which he had never failed to miss) the whole joy of it for Dean. And though he’d rather relive tonight’s scare over again than admit it to anyone, Dean had wanted to see that smile on Cas’ face, too.

And maybe, just  _ maybe _ , Dean wanted to smile tonight as well. Just for Cas, though. 

Just for Cas.

“Dean, uh, would you mind perhaps turning your mug?” Dean turned his head to the left where Cas lay, giving the socks seemingly ablaze with color a sheepish gaze where they say next to Dean’s own unsocked feet. “The eyes, you see, they’re, ah… they’re staring.” Dean looked down at his hands to find that, yes, the coal black eyes were, indeed, “staring” at Cas. Dean broke out into a laugh—one that made your eyes water at the edges and cause your stomach to crash upon itself from lack of air. It felt good.

Cas, startled, looked back at the hunter to find him practically rolling of laughter, clutching at one side as he struggled to breathe, now warm hot chocolate threatening to spill down the snowy sides of the snowman mug. Cas couldn’t help but smile and chuckle along.

It was ridiculous how hard they were laughing and for how long they were, but something about the absurdity of an Angel of the Lord being afraid of a black-eyed, painted— _ inanimate _ —snowman when said angel dealt with black-eyed demons practically every other day kept any ounce of negativity out of the room, only to be replaced with buoyant laughter and snickers. Actually, it had never occured to Dean that Cas was afraid of… well, anything. He had always seemed so strong when it came to demon dealing and sorts. He didn’t show fright or hesitation. It was part of what helped him survive. But this… this stupid little, not even  _ real _ snowman, reminded Dean that Cas may just as well be more human than angel.

It reminded Dean that Cas wasn’t indestructible. And neither was he.

Dean lay back on the silken, soft-to-touch bedspread, head thrown back against the staggering pile of pillows at the head of the bed. His gaze drifted almost magnetically to the white-hued ceiling. He counted the slight embellishes he could see from below, all of the cracks twisting and turning along a path only they knew to where. And he just breathed. He could feel his heartbeat in his chest and in his temple where it pulsed repetitively as if to remind him it was still there.

When Dean spoke, it came out as more of a whisper than he had intended, making his breath ghost across his lips in a way that reminded him of a soft fall wind. “The ceiling’s cracked, you know. I had thought this place was perfect, and it still is in my eyes, at least, but the ceiling’s cracked. And some of these mugs are chipped along the edges. Every great thing has a broken piece, right? Every great moment a second of terror? Like a weak link in a fence. Or a stray bulb on a string of lights that causes all the other  _ perfectly fine bulbs _ to stop from blazing. Isn’t it funny how one broken part can degrade the rest of the whole?” Dean hadn’t exactly been expecting an answer. He was more so just talking for the sake of… well, just  _ talking _ rather than actually conversing. But even the surprise of a resounding answer wasn’t enough to turn his head willingly.

“Weak links can be fixed, Dean. Cracks can be paved. You can find the broken part. It may take some time, yes, but you can mend it. Fix it. Anything can be fixed, Dean.”

Dean refused to look at Cas while he talked. It would weaken his resolve, he knew. He just wanted some answers—some hope. Cas could give him hope. “You can’t fix something that’s broken. It broke for a reason. Whether it be…  _ weak _ , or if someone—some _ thing _ —drove it to destruction, it’s still broken, isn’t it?”

Dean could feel Cas looking at him out of the corner of his eye. Feel his penetrating stare as if it had soaked through him, clogging his veins, deafening his ears, and numbing the tips of his fingers. He felt detached. “Worn isn’t broken, Dean. It’s just a little tattered. Worn is character.” Dean didn’t think they were simply talking about chipped mugs, anymore. And he thinks that Cas realizes that now, too. “Nothing is broken if it has the potential to be fixed.”

Dean traced a particularly pronounced slivered crack on the otherwise almost unmarred ceiling with an unrelenting leer. And then he did it again—and again—until he had no choice but to look over at Cas. The angel was already looking at him, the striking lapis lazuli taking him apart piece by piece. Dean just hoped that Cas meant what he had just said. He hoped he could put him back together again.

Dean had a decision to make in that moment. Whether he wanted to be solemn and close off Cas’ attempts to be there—be his  _ friend _ , or he could show Cas that he knew he was trying to be his friend, trying to help. And that Dean wouldn’t have it any other way. The latter was never a bad thing, no matter the cost.

In that moment, Dean chose his heart over his head.

“I don’t know, Cas. Maybe if I were infinite, I wouldn’t break.” He gave up the ‘chipped mug’ facade. This was Cas, afterall. He saw right through him, anyway. “I could be infinite… you know, like you.” He paused. “...With you.” Sapphire was still intently trained on emerald, never wavering, never slowing. What a clashing mix that still fit into rhythm just as well. It was a strange occurrence, really. In nature, two opposing elements naturally didn’t get along—they were made that way. They fought and tousled, out-ranked and conquered one another. They fought for opposing sides. But here… here, blues and greens danced in harmony, worked alongside each other, guiding one another. It wasn’t a brawl, and it wasn’t a clash. It was a slow dance—a working rhythm.

They had finally found their footing.

Sapphire and emerald. They defied every one of nature’s rules. They were opposites, one graceful and hypnotic, the other rugged and reserved, and yet they worked better together than they ever could apart. Sapphire and emerald—wings and feet. They’re the same thing, really. Same dance, same tempo.

An understanding.

The two have never danced this dance before. It was unprecedented, terrifying territory. Dean was hyper aware of every smell, every sound, every sensation. Different textures. He could smell the hot chocolate lingering and the popcorn trying to vacate, though stuck swirling the room due to the clamped windows. The heavy pitter-patter of rain frisking across the glass and window panes being the only noise filtrating the room save for the soft hum of the long-forgotten movie.

Fuzzy toes rubbed gently against bare ones, his own clenching and unclenching in response. He could hear the wisp of Cas’ breath ghosting right across his face—so close that he could smell the chocolate fading along with the evening light. They were swallowed by darkness itself except for the glow of the television and soft lamp light nursing the room. It allowed just enough light that Dean could see the black and blue of iris and pupil saturating the shadows. He could see the slight stubble around his chin and sugar plum-pink lips the angel always seemed to sport. He heard the soft tick of a gulp, but he couldn’t remember if it was he who had made it or the shallow-breathing angel lying directly in front of him.

The only thing he could see was Cas, the only thing he could feel was Cas, the only thing he could smell was Cas, the only thing he could  _ think _ about was  _ Cas _ .

Dean was drowning in a safe place.

He couldn’t remember if the angel was the one bolstering wings, or if that was his own heart. A fluttering sounded, but that could very well just be his own pulse wracking his eardrums. It sounded like the quiver of an arrow, shooting through his veins and the walls in his head.

He wondered if Cas could hear it. Feel it, even. The swooshing and flittering of his pulse pounding in his temples and his wrist, where it lay so close to Cas. Maybe he could see it hammering beneath the skin. Maybe that was the reason their hands had inched closer, their temples and faces neared. Not once has sapphire wavered, not once has it backed down from emerald. Sapphire has stolen his vision, and his heart of ruby, too.

There had been silence for way too long, Dean thought. It should have made it awkward, hostile, thorny, even. Silence threaded through thoughts—silence was the sole reason you spoke. It prodded at your mind, it opened up your mouth, stole your breath, your musings. Silence was unforgiving.

But this silence wasn’t brutal, it wasn’t pushy. It didn’t demand. This silence was more of an answer than the meaning of any words.

But silence is always broken. Sometimes by a breath, a laugh… a kiss. Something subtle that reintroduced sound tranquilly—something to let you adjust.

Breaking a glass did no such thing.

He hadn’t realized the mug he had been holding had shattered until there was a blistering liquid scorching a path down his arm. The sheets had soaked, remnants of chocolate and cream soiling his and Cas’ clothes.

And he… he could hear the wretched sounds again—the sounds that will continue to haunt him for years to come.

_ The sound of shattering glass deafeningly echoed in his ears—throughout his skull, rattling it where it sat _ .

He didn’t feel the scorching burn in his arm anymore. And he didn’t see Cas’ face—so close to his. Instead, he felt the searing pain in his heart when he saw the piece of reflecting metal enter the angel’s heart. It may as well have been Dean’s own.

The feeling he felt, the one that could only be described as blistering agony, ripped through his muscles, burrowed into his bones, and dug a grave within his heart. He just… he just… there was  _ nothing _ in that moment. His vision grayed at the edges, toying with his head, his cheek spilling rich blood from where he had clamped down in anguish.

_ Dean Winchester felt numb. That was the only way to describe it. _

His voice had disintegrated with the impact of the angel blade to Cas’ heart. He couldn’t scream, he couldn’t shout. No tears would come, nor would a cry.

There was nothing. All was quiet.

Two demons had a hold of Cas. It made Dean want to lunge, howl,  _ anything _ —he wanted to rip their brawny hands off of him, keep him safe. He just…  _ Cas _ was all he cared about in that moment. Not the fact that he was bleeding out, that he was inevitably next in line on death row, that he couldn’t  _ move _ .

Cas was dying. And Dean couldn’t think of a worse thing in the world.

Except… Cas  _ wasn’t  _ dying. The demons seemed just as confused as what Dean was sure was mirrored on his own face. They might as well be bound, just like Dean, as Cas’ eyes sparkled of grace and a smirk guarded his well-calculated face. Why Cas acted so smug, Dean didn’t know. But he also didn’t know how Cas hadn’t fallen to slain, either.

Sapphire crashed into emerald—so calm, so invigorating. Dean didn’t understand. Cas looked so sure… so… powerful. He didn’t understand in the slightest.

He didn’t understand in the slightest.

He didn’t understand how Cas could still carry himself like that—shoulders set, chest broadened, eyes so audacious and bold. He didn’t understand how Cas hadn’t—didn’t—seem phased at  _ all _ , even with an angel blade (which just so happened to be fatal, he might add) protruding from his chest. There was a wicked gleam in Cas’ eyes that Dean caught, a nod so subtle he wasn’t even sure he saw correctly. It reminded him so much of himself… reckless, callous.

And then he knew.

Cas didn’t care what happened to him… just as long as Sam and Dean were safe. As long as they were okay. He could see it, now. Why Cas was acting so reckless, so smug.

It was all an act.

Cas was the distraction—the decoy, so to speak. And it made sense, really. As soon as Cas had made his presence known, all of the demons had immediately tore for the angel, because they would have to take out the Winchesters’ “guard dog” before he had a chance to get in their way—before Sam and Dean had a chance to get away.

But that was the thing. Dean  _ couldn’t  _ get away. At least not with a foot he couldn’t use. So the Winchesters were left unattended as the demons circled to fight the intrusion, knowing full well Dean had no chance and that Sam wouldn’t leave him behind even if it meant his own life.

But that was what the gleam in Cas’ eye was for, wasn’t it? And the nod? The demons would have a hell of a time taking down the angel when caught off guard, which was what the dud of an angel blade was for, Dean was sure. Sam could get Dean out of there, they had the time, Dean knew it and Cas knew it too.

But contrary to what Cas might think, Dean wasn’t running, not even if he could. He knew Cas wouldn’t run —or  _ poof _ , whatever it was the angel does—if the situation was reversed, so why would Cas think this was a good idea? He’d been paying too much attention to Dean’s way of thinking, apparently. His recklessness. The devil-may-care attitude.

But even if Dean  _ was _ a self-reckless hunter, Dean refused to die a coward—die knowing he left his best friend behind to suffer a fate that he had stolen from Dean. If he went out, he went out with his family. Why Cas would think Dean’s mind would turn any other way, he didn’t understand.

He couldn’t understand.

Cas had his hands full, he saw. He stood atop askew bodies, having met their own ends at the touch of a finger brimming with angel grace. Or at the end of an angel blade, he corrected, as he witnessed Cas put a close to one of the many demons with the gleaming metal, striping the tip and sides with a ruddy, dripping red. Drops of the fallen splattered onto the ground, echoing louder than the thoughts in Dean’s head.

Many demons crowded the angel, festering between the cracks of bodies and any available space they could squeeze through. If any of them got a hold of that angel blade or even came close to pinning Cas down, it was over.

It couldn’t be over.

Dean had to do something.

He wasn’t bound to a wall or a chair to keep him in place, just tied at the wrists and in his mouth. It’s not like he could walk, anyway. Not with his foot twisted at a very non-flattering angle, sloshing blood with every twitch or buckle. There was also a rather nasty gash along his stomach that he could  _ just _ see from where his shirt had been ripped by several clawing hands and the sharp, gleaming points of knives.

He righted himself and flopped onto his knees, working at the bounds that held him. He just… God damn it, he didn’t know what his fingers  _ looked _ like, exactly, but they felt twisted and crunched and smashed obscenely. He was sure they looked even worse—it was a guessing game at best. So even if he  _ could _ get untied, he doubted he’d be much use.

And then he knew.

He saw what Cas had been thinking. And he was right.

Dean wouldn’t be able to help him.  _ That _ was the reason he had used himself as a decoy. More of a play-thing, really. The demons would rip him apart.

Cas  _ knew _ Dean was badly injured. He wouldn’t be able to fight, let alone stand without help. Castiel had taken it upon himself to save Dean’s life. But in the end, he would inevitably lose his own.

Dean couldn’t do anything about it, he couldn’t help Cas in any way. And Cas knew that.

It was infuriating and nauseating and Dean knew he was about to lose his best friend.

He couldn’t see how Cas thought that was fair. He couldn’t see how Cas could think Dean would be okay without him. He’d rather… well, he’d rather be dead than face that cruel, biting reality. And that did no good to either of them.

He closed his eyes. Cas was getting tired, he knew. He could see it in the way his shoulders slumped more and more each time he spun to face another handful of demons, and how the demons got closer to Cas’ demise each time. He didn’t have the angel blade in his hands anymore, either, and that worried Dean to no end. If one of the demons had it… 

He should have just left it alone, damn it, why couldn’t he have just  _ left it alone _ ?! He had gotten himself killed when there was no reason to. Dean couldn’t use his stupid plan, anyway—he couldn’t get away. And because Dean was so fucking weak, Cas was now paying with his life. There was no way this wouldn’t end in  _ all  _ of them dying, unless… unless Sam…

“ _ Dean! _ ” was whispered ferociously into his ear.

Sam.

The same Sam who was currently taking the belt out of his mouth and the ties off his wrists. He could feel the blood flowing to his fingers again—but just barely. Most of them just felt broken, uncirculated.

Sam thrust out something cold and sharp. He knew exactly what that was. “Why do you have…”

“An angel blade?” Sam finished. “Cas slid it to me, I used it to cut the ties.” And sure enough, when Dean looked over, Cas was relying solely on his grace to smite the demons engulfing him. There weren’t as many left, but Cas was tiring and his movements were slowing.

None of them were safe yet.

Dean was just glad that it was Sam who had the missing blade, and not one of the demons.

“Sam, we- we can’t just leave him…” Dean cried desperately. He didn’t care that his voice had cracked, or that Sam was looking at him with complete sympathy in his eyes. He was not leaving Cas behind. If Sam wanted to leave, he could leave without Dean too.

For a minute, he thought for sure Sam was going to make him go. Make him leave. But then Sam smiled—just a little upturn of lips—though there was pain riddled through fissures in his eyes. It was as if his eyes were forged from the purest of molten lava—unyielding strength giving way to the steady flow of red, streaky, corrupted veins. Inside his eyes, Dean could see him shedding strength. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

In times like the present, in utter drastic situations, Sam and Dean share one brain and one brain alone. They operated at the same speed, their footsteps syncing into a single echo. What one lacks in ambition, the other makes up for in intuition. They worked solely as one, thinking on the same wavelength, communicating without actually speaking. Which is why neither brother had to say a word for Dean to know to put an arm around Sam’s shoulders and for Sam to hoist him up, supporting his weight while still wielding the angel blade in a curled fist.

This was going to be one hell of a ride.

The two had been pretty far back in the warehouse, safely consumed in shadow, no demon or being noticed their (well, Dean’s) labored breaths and roaring footsteps from the burden of Sam carrying both of their weight. But emerging from those very same shadows was risky. They were now in plain sight, and it’s a miracle within itself no demon has noticed them yet.

They had Cas to thank for that.

But it wouldn’t be long before their attention was shifted from angel to hunter and then they were all screwed.

But the thing was, they were getting nowhere, really. Or at least that’s how it felt. And Dean was sure he wasn’t the only one to notice. Sam was trying to hasten their stride to no avail, Dean’s foot dragging behind, and what was once flowing thick and scarlet in his veins was trailing onto the cold, dirty floor in their wake.

Red, streaky, corrupted veins painting the floor, the blood creeping through the barriers of the strong, ridding its morals and shedding its spirit.

Their shuffling came to a halt as Dean put a slowing hand to his brother’s chest. They couldn’t do this. They had no plan, they were basically waltzing right into the lion’s den. All three of them were about to get torn to shreds, and Dean didn’t see a point to that.

Not only if one of them had to.

Sam gazed at him as if he’d grown another head. He knew Sam figured he was being crazy, stopping at a time like this, but he knew his brother would soon understand. He would  _ make _ him understand.

“Sammy…” he started. Sam’s crystal eyes grew wide in knowing where this was going. Dean knew his brother would protest, and they didn’t have much time—in fact, they didn’t have  _ any _ —so he cut Sam off before he started. “Drop me.”

“Dean, what? No, are you crazy?! We’re almost there-”

“Sam. You heard what I said. Drop me.” He looked into the taller brother’s eyes only to find that they weren’t looking at him. They were focused on the commotion in front of them, where a demon had already taken notice of them, black eyes flashing, nostrils flaring.

Their time was running out.

“Yeah, I’m probably a little crazy. And Cas may be willing to risk his life for us, but I… Sam, I can’t… you have to understand, Sammy. Without Cas…” He trusted himself to go no further. The tinge of tears had already crept into his voice and it hurt to hold them back—his throat burned from acidic feelings. But he wasn’t going to cry. He was going to be strong for his little brother. Sam deserved that.

His brother’s resolve was thinning, he knew. His eyes were soft on Dean’s as they came to a dreaded understanding. Unshed tears pooled in the misty blue depths beneath, and he wished desperately that the last memory he would have of his brother wouldn’t be full of tears and goodbyes. “Without Cas? Dean, what about without  _ you _ ?! How do you think Cas will handle  _ you _ gone? Think about how you feel when you imagine him not there with you. He’s going to feel the same way you do right now! Do you really want that for him? Do you?! And, Dean,  _ I  _ can’t do this without you. Not again. I… I can’t…” It was clear in Sam’s eyes that he was trying to push away the inevitable, what he knew his older brother was set on. But there was no other way to show Sam that he meant what he said without bursting his ever-shrinking bubble. Dean was set on his decision.

“I…,” he shook his head at the break in his voice, but knew that what was done was done. There would never be any replacing Sam. He would miss… he would miss Sam  _ so _ much. And… and Cas… he would forever miss Castiel.

“You  _ know _ this is the only way. I’m slowing us down and you know it. I’m the weak link, Sam. You can’t do this with me there. Drop me and most of the demons will come to me. Just be ready to help Cas with the ones that are left, okay?  _ Promise me _ you’ll help Cas.” Dean’s eyes were pleading with Sam’s, begging him to understand.

Of course he would help Cas with the demons, it was part of the plan. But he wasn’t  _ talking _ about the plan. Sam needed to help Cas after… well, after all of this. Keep him on the rails, things like that. He  _ needed _ Sam to understand about Cas. That was the only thing keeping his heart beating.

Sam nodded. Sam knew. He knew what Dean needed. He always had. Probably more than Dean knew himself. “Dean…” He knew where this was going. And he wasn’t going to let their last moments be tears and goodbyes. They’ve had too many of those.

Dean took a final last look at his brother. He saw a lot of himself there, what with the unbudging set of his jaw, blood meeting plaid fabric and drying on skin, the needing force of trying to keep his tears in place. But that’s where Dean ended and Sam began. Because no matter how strong his brother’s will, Sam’s emotions always shone through. The tears fell anyway, no matter the unwilling force behind them. They flowed from his face in streams, following the curve of his nose and his bruised lips, mingling in spilled blood. His hair was distraught, his eyes begging Dean to reconsider, even though he knew his brother well enough to know there was no changing his mind. Dean squeezed Sam’s shoulder… and then he knew the Winchesters would be no more. “See you soon, Sammy.”

And then he dropped.

Dean felt a tear trickle raggedly down his cheek, brethren wetting his eyelashes, even though he’d promised himself he wouldn’t. For Sammy. But Sam wasn’t here anymore. He was doing what Dean would no longer be doing after tonight in this godforsaken warehouse.

The Family Business.

The tear wasn’t for what Dean was about to do—it wasn’t for his fate, as he’d already accepted the fair punishment of death’s reaping. It wasn’t for the pain flaring hot in his foot, in his hands, his fingers. Inside the deep gash of bloodshed along his stomach.

It was for the pain in his heart. And knowing that if he  _ didn’t _ do this, the two people he loved most—the people who made the world glow with colors and string with lights—would die. And if saving Sam and Cas meant venturing his own life into the wind, then he was okay with that.

In fact, he’d already made his peace with that a long time ago.

This single tear wasn’t shed in sadness. And it wasn’t shed in defeat. It was shed in knowing that he’s saving Sam. And Cas. It was shed in a victory that was entirely his own. In a victory in which he’d be okay, this time. Because Cas was safe. Cas wasn’t dying tonight in this old, dark, cold warehouse,  _ alone _ , where shadows bounced off the walls, gathering in places you couldn’t see, and unseen breaths clogged the air.

He’d be okay now. And Cas would be okay, too.

As Dean had thought, the majority of the clambering demons had scattered in his direction, beckoned by the call of his cries. He’s landed on his injured foot, pinning it beneath himself, crunching sickeningly between his slumping body weight and the grimy, frigid floor.

He had cried out, drawing the attention of Hell’s servants, which was what he had been aiming for, anyways. A little pain wouldn’t mean shit in the long run.

Sam was long gone by the time the demons had soared over to where Dean lay, sinking into the shadows, becoming as dark as the textures on the vandalized walls. Dean felt better in knowing he’d be okay.

In between the cracks of the demons’ gathered bodies around him, he could see Cas finishing the last demon that hadn’t scattered to Dean. His eyes crackled and sparkled with grace, he could see, as he looked over to where Dean was shivering, soaking in a pool of red, rich blood. That was the only thing keeping him warm now—his own spilled body heat. How funny was that?

Right before the demons sealed the cracks where he could see Cas, probably for the last time, he had frantically turned his head, eyes set on  _ something _ , though Dean couldn’t see what it was even if he tried. Bodies blocked most of the light, anyway. They encircled him in every direction, and he felt good knowing that Cas and Sam were safe. And that they couldn’t possibly reach Dean now.

_ Their time was finally up _ .

One spoke. Engrossing, this one was. Its voice was deep and thick, and it seemed to hold the respect of the rest of the gathered. Black eyes turned to meet this one demon, though it didn’t bother to meet theirs.

Dean had the attention of the leader.

“You think you’re tough, Winchester?” it spoke. Its voice dragged out into exaggerated syllables, deep and echoing, eyes never wavering from Dean once. He felt pinned down in every meaning of the word.

But Dean refused to back down. Call it too much pride if you want. But Dean really just didn’t want to think about how much the steady eye contact reminded Dean of Cas. The differences were huge, of course, as the demon’s willful stare was powerful and controlled, and Cas’ was… well, Dean didn’t really know what it was. But it was always sincere, Dean knew. Conveying so much emotion so clearly that he might have well just said what he was thinking. Vibrating with love and compassion for Dean. Never once was it controlling or belligerent. Dean didn’t want to lose the feeling of Cas’ affectionate gaze to this obstinate, stiff-necked, black-eyed demon.

“You do, don’t you? You think you’re so tough, slipping your restraints off and, what,  _ crawling _ a few feet?” The rip on Dean drew a chuckle from a few of the gathered demons, which the leader choked off mid-laugh with just a turn of its head. The demons put their own down quickly, submitting to the greater demon—their leader.

Dean’s lips quirked at the edges, though not in joy. Sarcasm was more of the right word, and it just so happened to be right up his alley. “I don’t think I’m tough,” he started, voice low and rough, but slowly gaining volume with each word he spoke. “I don’t think I’m tough because I know I could never be that.” Some of the demons coughed or smirked, but Dean knew that it wouldn’t last for long. “I’m  _ more _ than tough. I’m resilient, strong, so much more than just  _ tough _ . So much more than  _ you _ .”

Demons are funny in times like these. Most not knowing what to do when their prey fights back, they resort to insults and name-calling. That’s old news, Dean thought. He wanted more than insults that he’s quite sure he’s heard before. 

He wanted to get heated, to forget about the brain-numbing pain in his foot and slashes cutting through his body. He wanted to be able to get up and fight back. He wanted to feel powerful, he wanted to feel good. He wanted to  _ live _ .

“And you know what else,  _ Daddy Demon? _ ” he bit. Now he wasn’t just getting the leader riled up, he was getting  _ all _ of them riled up. And Dean took more satisfaction in that than any other thing he’s ever felt. He was holding the reins now, and no one could loosen his grip.

“Listen here, Winchester-”

“No,  _ you _ , listen to  _ me _ ,” Dean cut in, some of the demons growling, lips curling, some stepping forward as if meaning to harm or kill, which he knew they did. But none of them got the chance, all of them faltering in step as the leader gave them such a vicious snarl that goosebumps littered even Dean’s skin and a shiver shot up his spine.

But that’s what he was counting on. To get the leader so riled up and angry that his pride got in the way of his head and he wouldn’t let anything or anyone else kill Dean Winchester but himself. Maybe him and Sam were still sharing a mindset, because Dean had no idea where the sense of pure wit had come from, but he had acted on it with his royal smirk and lazy eyes. He would always have his infuriating charm, no matter the circumstances.

Maybe Dean Winchester wouldn’t be completely going away after all. He’d still be here, marking these walls, soiling this floor, seeping into the demons’ dead hands, their flesh. He’d still be  _ here _ , even if just by the memory of his smirk, his final act before death.

He’d still be here.

“You think you’ve got it so good, don’t you? A pack of demons kneeling at your feet, following you around like lost puppies. What have you offered them? Surely there’s something, or else they wouldn’t be following you around like tiny little guard dogs. Or,” Dean smirked, the devil flashing behind his eyes, “ _ Maybe  _ you’re just trying to be the new Crowley,” he finished, chest inflating with satisfaction at the look of mortification taking root in the leader’s features. “Oh, I’m sorry, looks like I’ve struck a nerve.”

“How  _ dare _ you, Winchester! I have not  _ offered _ my  _ loyal _ followers  _ anything _ . In fact, they’re much like you and that ‘guardian angel’ you’ve got hovering over your shoulder, heh? Always following you around, keeping you in his sight, straying you from danger. Just like this little stunt tonight, I presume. And you’re no different. No, not at all, not at all,” it murmured, its voice a thick roar magnifying in the walls of its throat.

“You make sure he’s not doing something reckless, keeping him on the rails. Surely we don’t want another Leviathan incident like the one a few years ago, do we? You feel differently for him, I know. And you push it away, you do. This angel,  _ God’s _ angel, is your demon. Ironic, isn’t it? That you can’t face what’s looking directly at you, so you don’t. And it tears you and that angel apart. He brought the Leviathans from Purgatory for you, didn’t he.” It wasn’t a question anymore, it was a statement. Because they all knew the answer. Dean knew the answer.

“To save  _ you _ . It’s  _ always _ you. And it’ll always be  _ him _ . I knew you were stupid, but this is a whole new level, Winchester. If you could just open up your eyes for just a  _ second _ and see that I  _ do _ indeed care about my demons. But you… you  _ love _ yours.”

The world spun, Dean’s head fighting the dizziness and the denial engrossing him. He couldn’t keep his eyes open without fighting so drastically. He was drowning.

He was in too deep.

And he was confused. Because at first, Dean had thought that they demon’s eyes had glowed in menace, in power. But it wasn’t that at all. It was the fire and sparks leaking through its eyes and mouth that Dean had seen so many times before—that Dean had  _ done _ so many times before.

The leader dropped to the floor, not moving, not breathing. Angel grace had wiped away its soul, taking it away from this earth once and for all.

All was still.

All was still.

Dean heard the rest of the demons backing away rather than actually seeing it. He couldn’t look away from the gentle, exhausted blue gaze that held his own. Blood caked the angel’s face, but he still looked beautiful. He’d always look beautiful.

The worn angel slowly dropped to the floor, so close to Dean, oh so close to Dean it was unbearable. His listless fingers twitched next to ones still crackling with grace, their chests facing one another so close that Dean could see every nick or rip or tear or stain on the angel’s trench coat, billowing beneath to his undershirt. Dean looked up at him, the angel on his knees, the hunter pinned in an awkward position on the ground, foot still crunched beneath him. He could touch him if he really wanted to.

He really wanted to.

Dean tried to move his hands, his fingers, his arms,  _ anything _ , but found nothing would move. He couldn’t move. But the angel’s eyes were glistening and soft, and spoke what he simply couldn’t.

_ It’s okay. _

He gently sat down in front of Dean, soaking his pants in Dean’s pooling blood, surrounding and splattering in every direction. Dean felt bad. And that was strange. Not that he felt bad, because he  _ lived _ feeling bad. But because he couldn’t feel anything else. His fingers, his legs, his toes, his head. He saw the angel in front of him slowly put his hand on his chest—he watched Castiel try to heal him, he did. But he didn’t feel it. He could feel a pressure there, but he couldn’t  _ feel _ his hand on his bare chest like he should be able to. It was like at the dentist’s when they numb your mouth and you can feel them working around in crevices and corners, but you can’t actually feel any pain or sensation.

Dean had always been scared of the dentist.

He wanted to lean his head forward against the angel’s shoulder, he wanted to lean his chest in to the gentle touch. He wanted to feel his skin on Cas’ but he  _ couldn’t _ and that frustrated Dean more than anything.

Maybe this was what death was. Maybe whoever was up there or whoever was  _ down _ there numbed everything for you, took away the pain. Maybe they gave you a gentle fantasy to ease into with.

Maybe his life was flashing before his eyes.

Sam and Cas were too late it seemed. And he was slowly drifting into the void, wordlessly, soundlessly.

_ He couldn’t feel anything. _

He could see Sam running his way in the distance, shouting something. Shouting something that Dean couldn’t hear. No demons were left. It was just Dean. Just Dean, and Sam, and the angel in front of him. He couldn’t even see his face anymore, it was just a blur of textures and colors, all of them blending and running together—like a dripping painting. It was disorienting, really. It was like his features were running off the side of the page or the face of the Earth. But Dean could see wings. And a halo. There they were, floating, drifting soundlessly.

Those were the only things he could see clearly. They were so bright, so full of color, though Dean didn’t know how that was possible as the wings were a dark, mellowy black and the halo a bright, blinding gold. He wanted to feel if it was made from the angel’s grace. That was the only way it could be so inviting, so bright.

That was all he saw. Everything else was fading, falling into an abyss that Dean had no doubt he would soon join. Just not yet. He wanted to look at the shimmering wings, raising and falling in a rhythm like the life of a chest; inhaling, exhaling. Steadily up and down. Dean imagined the slow beat of a drum, accompanying the rhythm in sync.

It’d be nice if he could hear it, though. The drum. He was sure that Cas would like drums. Dean could see the joyous, childish beam that he wore with Dean or when he found something new, something exciting. It never failed to somehow make Dean smile, too.

He’d much prefer the drum to the ringing in his ears. It felt like he was underwater, sound muffled from above. You could make out voices, but you couldn’t tell who they belonged to or what they were saying. You couldn’t even make out your own name. He was drowning.

He was drowning in death.

Which is why he thought he had imagined the small, very muffled cry that sounded much too like his own name. But he heard it again, and again, and every time it got louder, more emphasis on the four letters, more emotion.

Clearer. 

But he was underwater and he shouldn’t be able to hear his name. He shouldn’t be able to place voices, he should be drifting where there was no sound. He should be falling into that deep, dark abyss.

But he wasn’t underwater. And he  _ could _ make out voices. And he knew what those voices were saying. He wasn’t drowning, he realized. And the wetness he felt was only on his face, salty tears dripping hot and wet onto his arms.

The wetness he  _ felt _ .

_ He felt _ . He could feel? When could he feel?

He felt warm, sticky hands on either side of his face, squeezing as if that would bring the life back to him. He no longer heard the insistent ringing, either. He heard his name, shouted over and over. Why it was being shouted, he didn’t know. He was right there, there was no need to yell. He wished they would stop.

But besides his name, there was the wet sound of tears and the broken, prickled sobs of anguish. Who was crying? Why were they crying?

Dean opened his eyes— _ when had he closed them? _ —to degratingly find that the wings and halo were gone, but instead replaced with a striking sapphire. They were bluer than cloudless skies or churning seas or ripe blueberries or mating blue jays. They were just so simply  _ blue _ that it took Dean’s breath away.

Everything was coming back—steadily and slowly—but coming back. And everything was fine. Good, even. He felt no pain, nothing at all. But not like he had before—he still felt his emotions, he still felt  _ himself _ , but physically, there was no pain.

When had that happened?

He looked down where his hand had been newly interlaced with the angel in front of him. They weren’t broken or bloody or even crooked. The same with his foot, which had no blemishes, no tears. He could move it, good as new.

Somehow the angel in front of him had managed to put Humpty Dumpty back together again.

“Dean.” Dean looked up at his name, instinctual. It wasn’t said with force or anger. It wasn’t said with torment or despair, either. It was disbelieving in a sort of way.

Dean didn’t know what to say, so he said all he could. “...Cas.”

* * *

His eyes opened to darkness. It wasn’t the kind of darkness that was scary; cocooning ominous whispers and secrets and violence. Yet it wasn’t the sort of darkness that had an itch of despair beneath its skin. The kind only sated when feeding from the most vulnerable parts of you—the parts you would go to the ends of the Earth to hide. The kind of darkness Dean knew all too well.

It was quiet.

All was quiet in the darkness where Dean Winchester lay.

He didn’t remember falling into the grasp of sleep, but he couldn’t deny that he did. His vision was unfocused, his mind groggy. And he was shivering where he lay under the covers. (When did that happen?)

If it weren’t for the familiar scent of flowered detergent and faded cologne and just a woodsy,  _ earthy _ smell that Dean associated with his big blue-eyed angel friend, he wouldn’t have known where he was or what he was doing. Because as much as the setting was the same, it was different. There was no more light, even if it was only the dim cascade of the lamp and television, like he remembered beforehand. There was only darkness, and the cold touch of an empty spot beside him.

But these things weren’t the things that frightened him.

The thing was, he slept. He  _ actually _ slept. Even though it was still the middle of the night, Dean hadn’t woken up once. He didn’t even remember falling asleep.

He never slept like that. He tossed and turned throughout the night and was up and down the whole time. He was only out for a few hours at best. He didn’t know what did it tonight, though, not really. But he did know that even in memory’s dark grasp, he still felt safe knowing there was a protector watching over him.  _ His  _ protector. His angel.

His Cas.

And in many ways, Cas  _ was _ his. He was his friend, his best friend, actually. He was his savior, he was his silence. But the good kind of silence. If you just listen, silence has more power to heal and to connect than any words possibly offered. They have that kind of silence.

But in as many ways that Cas was his, he wasn’t.

He really  _ wasn’t _ Dean’s. So why did Cas feel the most infuriating need to take care of him? He didn’t understand, Cas doesn’t need to do that,  _ he doesn’t _ . Dean Winchester can take care of himself, God dammit, why can no one see that?  _ Everyone _ —Sam, Bobby, Ellen, Jo, Charlie, Kevin,  _ Cas _ —everyone thinks that Dean’s not capable of handling things on his own. And every single one of them,  _ every single one _ , has died trying to do it for him, and he will not, he  _ will not _ let Cas be one of those people. He will not go through that pain again. He almost lost Cas to that exact reason tonight, and Dean will be damned if he lets it happen again.

He works himself up so much that even though his blood is boiling, his teeth are chattering and goosebumps are running rampant on his skin.

He’s mad, steaming mad, and for so many different reasons. Cas risking his life for Dean makes him mad. Cas seeing right through him makes him mad. Cas’ stupid fuzzy socks make him mad. Cas not  _ being _ here, leaving nothing behind but the air in his tracks, makes him  _ mad _ .  _ Cas _ makes him mad.

He’s just so  _ mad _ , there’s no hope in even controlling it. He’s mad all the time, and it’s infuriating and frustrating and it makes him want to bang his head off a wall. But at the same time it makes him long—makes him  _ crave _ —Cas’ touch and embrace and contact, and  _ love _ and just  _ Cas _ . He craves Cas so much that it hurts, it hurts more than his wounds in that warehouse, it hurts more than the numbness he carries around inside, it hurts more than the agony of watching an angel blade pierce his angel’s chest, it  _ hurts _ . And it makes Dean mad.

That’s why he can’t sleep, Dean realizes. It’s hard to sleep when your mind is at war with your heart. His emotions are the fuel of this war, and Dean doesn’t know how to make it stop. He can’t turn this off. All of this pent-up frustration. He can’t  _ do it _ anymore, holding it all in. 

He can’t make it work, as much as he wishes he could. That just frustrated Dean even more.

He has this aura about him, Dean Winchester. Maybe it’s in the way his eyes light up when he smirks, or the way he carries himself, or maybe it’s what others would call arrogance at first glance. But when someone takes the time to look deeper—his heart of gold.

But it makes everyone feel like they can do anything. And Dean is so used to that attitude that comes along with years of the facade, that he’s come to believe it himself. So when he’s proven wrong and he  _ can’t _ do everything, he feels like he’s failed.

_ Who _ he’s failed, he doesn’t know. He feels like he failed Sammy. And his dad, and his mom. And Cas, he feels like he’s failed Cas. But really, he’s failed himself. Because Sam and Cas still believe in him, and he knows deep down that if his parents could, they would. He likes to believe they still do, wherever they are.

But Dean doesn’t believe in himself. Not anymore.

And you know what? That makes Dean  _ unbelievably _ mad.

And when Dean’s mad, he does stupid things.  _ Really _ stupid things. Thinking seconds instinct in times like these. This time is no different. So when Dean charges in front of him and punches the wall he had earlier thought was so calming, he doesn’t think.

He thinks after, he feels after. But it’s not the pain he feels.

It’s the regret. The regret that’s been there for God knows how long, eating away at his bones. And feeling that, the build-up of all the guilt, is way worse than any pain he could ever feel.

His mom used to think of it as the two R’s. Regret and realization. Along with one comes the other. And of course, because he’s Dean, realization comes second. Which fucking sucks.

Because his hand is in a wall, a nice wall, a wall in which he just realized why he felt so calm and at peace with. Because this whole place, the bed with the strewn covers, the bathroom where he had left his towel, the walls with the quiet colors, the kitchen with leftover popcorn kernels and hot chocolate powder, all of it reminded him of what he never had. Of what he’s always tried to make. Of what he’s always wanted.

A home.

It reminded him of a home. He wasn’t mad anymore, no. He was just sad. And regretting ruining another home—or the idea of one, really. How can he ruin something he never had?

He’s never had a true home. One where he can come back home to with a too-big backpack and report card and tell his parents all about what happened in school that day and play catch with their dog outside and tag with his little brother and sit down and have a dinner with his family on Christmas night.

Instead, his dad came home to  _ him _ , drunk and insensitive, and to a dead wife. They had no dog. There was no room for dogs at low-budget motels. And he never played tag with Sammy. He had to teach him how to use a gun instead so that he might actually  _ live _ a few years in this fucked up life they led.

Dean doesn’t think he’s ever had a family dinner, either. Not one that he can remember, anyway. He had Sam, and yeah, Sam’s his family, but he never got to sit around the dinner table with his parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles (he didn’t even know if he had any) and pray their thanks for their food. He’s sure that if he would have had a life like that, he would have hated the family traditions and things, but he would have at least had a better life. One where he would have been disgusted by a ratty, holy blanket instead of comforted by one growing up. Or one that at least covered more than his waist.

Most of his childhood was just him and Sam with a bucket of cheap take-out, or when things got really bad, stolen soggy sandwiches from the grocery store.

He didn’t choose this life. It was chosen for him. And that’s really the biggest regret he’s ever had.

Dean’s good at what he does, he really is. But if he had the chance to just put the salt and knives away and settle down in a nice house, or even an apartment, he’d take it in a heartbeat. Because this life comes with so much freakin’ baggage he doesn’t have the mental capacity for it anymore and it’s eating him away from the inside out. And it’s painful. It really is. It sucks. And Dean’s tired of this nagging feeling in the back of his mind that someone he loves is going to die any time they go outside. And for as much as that happens, you’d think he’d be used to it, but he’s not.

That’s just not something you get used to.

That’s why tonight was such a big scare. Because Sammy and Cas are  _ all _ that he has left going for him, and losing Cas is like losing half his life. More than half his life.

Losing Cas is like losing his home. His family.  _ Himself _ . 

He can’t do that again.

Dean breaks everything he touches, he knows he does. The hole in the wall is just more proof of that. He doesn’t want to break Cas like everything else—like a fragile antique he accidentally dropped. He’s weak, he’ll corrupt the pureness that is this angel. He’s an angel in every sense of the word.

_ There’s always a weak link _ .

But then there’s Cas. His words echoing in his head.  _ Worn is character _ .

Cas is such an optimist. Dean wishes he were like that. And the fact that he’s not makes him mad. He’s mad that he gets mad over such stupid things. It’s really not that far off from jealousy and that’s just plain stupid. It’s  _ stupid _ and infuriating that he’s mad that he can’t see the bright side of things. His life is to fault for that. Constantly toying with death does something to your head that you never really come back from. Something that you  _ can’t _ come back from.

Dean’s just upset.

And confused, too. Tears are falling and he has no idea why. Dean doesn’t cry. He tries not to, he really does. But this time he has no control over it, just like he has no control over a lot of things, and he’s just so  _ exhausted _ .

The night in the warehouse may be over, but the memory of it will haunt him forever. And that’s something Dean’s not sure he can get over. Not this time.

Cas isn’t dead. He didn’t die tonight. But a part of Dean did.

“Dean?” The air is quiet. It’s almost as if no one had spoke. But it’s always like that for Dean. Things go through him sometimes. But other times,  _ he’s _ the one going through things. Like this wall. Like this dark wall that his hand is still embedded in.

Like he said, things go through him, things go by him. He blames that, again, for being the reason as to why he didn’t hear the gentle glide of footsteps coming his way, or the parting of air for the hand that now delicately rests on his shoulder. He blames a lot of things for that.

Glancing down, he sees a gentle hand. And looking up, he sees soft, glistening eyes shadowing a solemn mouth. He can only imagine what he looks like right now. He’s just glad pity hasn’t crossed Castiel’s face. He’s never pitied Dean, and that makes him feel a little bit better, because he’s not sure his unstable emotions could take it if he did.

“Dean… oh, oh no.” Cas is whispering, breathing easily, like if he talked any louder Dean would snap again. Like his breath could shatter the air around them. “What happened? Talk to me…” Cas has been nothing but gentle, and while that should be endearing and Dean should be grateful, it really makes his head spin and his teeth grit. He’s not this fragile, weak thing that Cas seems to think he is. He’s not! Cas has always seen him, unlike everyone else, he’s always seen him. He was different. But right now, it seems like Cas is going right through him, too.

He spins around roughly, facing Cas and shoving his hand off. His hand is now free, but his lungs and heart are caged; constricted. It’s hard to breathe and everything is spinning. Everything but for those blue eyes, shimmering in the dark. They’re bright and blinking, sunken into the daze of confusion and hurt. That hurts and feels good at the same time and it’s just something else to add to the list of what makes Dean tick.

“You wanna know what happened, Cas? Do you?!” He’s yelling and Cas is flinching, but there’s no more room to care in the cage that’s constricting his heart. There was no more room a long time ago. Maybe this is what Lucifer felt like, sitting behind the bars of hell. This is what hell feels like. This is Dean’s hell.

“What  _ happened _ is that you don’t give a shit what happens to you.” Dean’s legs are carrying him forward before he even registers what’s happening. “You couldn’t care less, and you  _ need _ to. You can’t die. Because that would  _ kill _ me more than anything in this world or the next. And the fact that you would die for  _ me _ … how don’t you see how much I’m struggling here?! How could you just think that I could  _ handle _ something like that?! How could you just do that? How could you… how could you do that?” His voice cracked at the end as it died off into a whisper, tears threatening to engulf his throat. His vision was blurred, but he could still see the two shiny spheres of blue, clear as day poking through the clouds of his tears. How does that always happen?

His ears are ringing. It was like looking right into the sun after having sunglasses on all day. He hates this.

Dean wishes the roaring in his head would stop.

Dean wishes he could have enough control to hear his own thoughts right now.

Dean wishes a lot of things. And for Cas to stop looking at him like he’d just slapped him across the face is one of them.

“Dean…,” Cas began, taking a hesitant step forward. Dean just backed up. “You were in trouble, Dean, I could help, I  _ did _ help-”

“Bullshit. That’s bullshit and you know it as well as I do. If you would have died risking your life for  _ me _ , do you have  _ any _ idea how torn up I would have been? I never would have gotten over that. Hell, I’m torn up right now and you’re standing right here in front of me!” Dean moves forward as his eyes begin to clear. “I can see you, I can smell you, I can… touch you.” Dean slowly moves his hand, brushing Cas’ chest, right above his heart. The trench coat is worn but soft with use and radiates heat to his fingertips. Somehow, this is so much more intimate than when they were lying on the bed together, their faces inches apart.

“When I woke up and you weren’t there… Cas, I thought something terrible had happened to you. I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if…,” his voice trailed off into nothing. “You weren’t there when I needed you, and… and I didn’t know what to do. You can’t just  _ leave _ me. You can’t just… leave. Don’t leave. Not now, not ever.” His voice sounded pathetic, and he knew that, but he stopped caring long ago. He wasn’t just talking about Cas not being there when he woke up anymore, and he didn’t know how long he hadn’t been. The warehouse was prominent in his thoughts. He just knows that the feeling of losing Cas is the worst thing in the world.

“I thought I watched you die, Cas. An angel blade— _ an angel blade— _ went through your heart, I watched it happen. And I couldn’t  _ do  _ anything! I was helpless and bleeding but that didn’t matter because all I could think about was  _ you _ and if you died, I’d rather stop breathing than stay on an Earth that you’re not in.”

“What you just said, that right there, is why I did what I did, Dean.” Cas was calm, and that made a part of Dean calm, but another part wild and sporadic wondering how Cas could speak without the very tremble that Dean’s voice carried and move without shaky hands. Did he not care as much as Dean did?

“That’s why I did it!” The way Cas put such emotion behind his words without a raised voice or falling apart on the outside baffled Dean. It was hard to wrap your head around, but the idea and intent itself was actually soothing. It opened Dean’s heart up. “And I would do it again in a heartbeat. I would do it again because if I die, it’s okay. Because I would have saved you, I would have helped you. I would rather stop breathing than be in a world that doesn’t have you! Because you  _ are _ my world! You’re the light streaming through the curtains in the morning and the hot coffee steaming up the kitchen. You’re the trees that people stop to take pictures of and the birds that sing to their hatchlings in the nest. You’re  _ all  _ I have. Saying it like that makes it sound like I can hold the world in the palm of my hand, but I can’t. I’m no God.” Cas’ hand grasped and tightened around Dean’s own and flying tendrils of sensation flew by. “I don’t have the world. I have you.”

Dean’s heart can’t take it anymore. There’s a feeling in his chest that makes it feel like his heart grew three sizes, just like the Christmas movie, and it made his head soar, thoughts running wild. Cas was saying all these things to him like he deserved it, but he doesn’t. Cas is the one who does. Cas is pure and wholesome and moral and  _ good _ and Dean is none of those things. Taking the good from the world is a crime that Dean could not live with, he doesn’t see how  _ anyone _ could live with that. Dean is nothing that Cas is, how doesn’t he see that?

“I couldn’t see you hurt, Dean. Not again.” Cas’ eyes are languid peering into Dean’s. He looks exhausted, and hurt, but focused and willful and determined. Dean wishes he had the stride and determination that Cas emanates and breathes. He wishes he had what is embedded in Cas’ nature. He wants to see the good in people and in things and  _ be _ good. He wants to be good for Cas.

“If you would have died…,” Dean trailed off. He couldn’t even finish his sentence. If Cas would have died, nothing could describe the pain, the  _ agony _ , that he would have felt. No words, no feelings for the thoughts he would have had to carry around for the rest of his life. Nothing can even compare to the suffering and emptiness he would have faced.

“But I didn’t. And I don’t think you’re seeing that. I’m here. I’m really here, right now, I’m here. I can touch you…” His hand that had been grasped around Dean’s slowly moves to his face where it lightly brushes his cheek. Cas is rubbing right along his six o’clock shadow (more like twelve o’clock), but he doesn’t care, and Cas doesn’t care, and so he lets his eyes slip shut, and a tear cascades down his cheek. It slides right into the path of Cas’ hand, and he lets it, they both do, until Cas wipes the trail away gently with his finger. “See? I can touch you. I’m here. See me. Please. See me.”

Dean has the tickle in the back of his throat that means his voice is going to crack and more tears are going to fall, but he speaks in spite of it anyway. “I see you. Of course I see you. I always see you. But the question is, do you see me?” He was right about his voice cracking and tears falling, some getting caught in his eyelashes, sticking and itching, but Cas doesn’t move them away this time. Instead, he looks straight into Dean’s green-as-a-forest eyes and grabs his bleeding hand with his and lets the glow of his grace light the room. His hand is healed, but he didn’t really feel the pain anyway. He doesn’t feel anything besides the grip of Cas’ hand on his and his ablazed, aquatic gaze and the tears that had made homes on Dean’s cheeks.

“I see you. I see the way that you fight for—and with—the people you love. I see the way you smile proudly at Sam when he solves a problem—on a hunt, or in general. I see the way your eyes light up when Led Zeppelin comes on the radio and how you took Claire under your wing. I see the way you protect Jack, and everyone else for that matter. It’s who you are, and not just because it’s in your blood. It’s  _ you _ . I see you, Dean. What I don’t see is how anyone couldn’t.”

Dean is wonderstruck. “How do you see the good in me so easily? I don’t see it. I wish I could, God, I’ve tried, but I  _ can’t _ . There’s nothing here worth seeing, nothing worth saving. I’m just…” Dean can’t think of what he’s trying to say until it happens and he just  _ knows _ . Maybe this was what he was trying to say this whole time. “I care too much. That’s my problem, Cas. It’s my flaw, a curse. It’s what makes me weak.”  _ The two R’s. Regret and realization. Along with one comes the other.  _ Dean realizes now.

Cas grips Dean’s hand until he’s forced to look down at him. It’s dark, Cas’ grace long since faded, but Dean can still see him just fine when he’s this close. They’re not as close as they had been on the bed, but Dean can still see the hues and undertones of the blue belle irises locked intently with his. It’s breathtaking and nerve-wracking but calming all at the same time and he doesn’t know how that could be but he doesn’t really care. “It’s a blessing and a curse to feel everything so very deeply.”

Dean is startled at first when Cas speaks and he doesn’t really know what he means by that. “You feel things that you wish you didn’t, but sometimes it is necessary to feel them,” Cas continues. “You may look at that as a curse, but I see it as a blessing. You have a gift in the way you feel things. When you’re happy, your heart is full of energy and you wear a smile from the inside out. When you’re in love, your heart feels lighter, it beats harder, you’re free from everything that has hurt you. When you trust, you give yourself over completely, and yes, sometimes that’s where it goes wrong. Because if things don’t work out, you feel betrayed and stupid and any other person that isn’t you would give up. But you  _ are _ you, and you don’t. You keep going, you always keep going, because your determination is so strong that you don’t really think about stopping. Caring is not your flaw. It’s your heart’s way of opening itself to those around you. And it only makes you stronger. You, Dean Winchester, are anything  _ but _ weak, and I don’t think you’re told that enough.”

There are no words. There are no words that Dean could possibly say to match anything—everything—that Cas had said, so he just finds himself nodding along. He catches himself losing the world around him to Castiel’s eyes and the emotions displayed there. He feels sick from the complete and utter devotion and  _ love _ pouring straight from Cas’ soul and out like waves from his ocean-like eyes, crashing onto Dean’s sandy freckles. He doesn’t deserve that kind of affection. But Cas seems to think that he does. And you know what? That’s enough for him. 

Because he feels it too. Feels the devotion that Dean unconsciously throws at Cas, something he hadn’t really realized until now.

And that’s enough for him.

“You are your own weakness, Dean. Whether you realize that or not, it’s you. You hurt yourself and hurt yourself over and over and put yourself down, but if only you knew how everyone else sees you… how  _ I _ see you…” The rest of the sentence goes unsaid. And it’s never really finished. But it’s pretty easy to fill in the blanks.

Dean feels light. Like gravity has no hold over him, like  _ nothing _ has a hold over him anymore. He finally feels free. Free from all the weight he lugs around and the regret and the sadness and the anger and frustration. He feels free and light and his heart is pounding because he knows he’s going to be okay.

_ When you’re in love, your heart feels lighter, it beats harder, you’re free from everything that has hurt you _ .

Cas is the thing that keeps him from all the demons (theoretical and actual) that hold him down and he just feels so… so safe. He’s not sad anymore, or mad, or frustrated, or  _ heavy _ . He’s okay. With Cas… he’s not weak. He’s strong, and Cas is strong; they’re stronger together than they are apart, just like with him and Sammy.

Except this  _ isn’t _ like with him and Sammy. It isn’t like that at all.

Dean knows that now.

“Thank you. For everything.” And Dean means it. He was never the best with words, but he hopes that Cas understands that he isn’t just thanking him for what he just said. He’s thanking him for so much more than that.

The two of them are so much more than that.

Dean wants Cas to understand that he’s thanking him for making Dean feel real in his own skin. For showing Dean what it’s like to see the bright side of things. For showing him that there  _ is _ a bright side. He wants to thank Cas for being a constant presence, and for supporting him in his opinions and beliefs. He wants to thank Cas for  _ being _ his beliefs. He thanks him for saving his life and his brother’s life tonight, because he did, as much as he hates to admit that. He wouldn’t be standing here, heart hammering, without Cas. He couldn’t do a lot of things without Cas. Dean wants him to know that, wants Cas to understand that.

And when Dean looks into Cas’ clear, clear eyes, he knows deep within his heart that Cas does.

And Dean couldn’t feel any better.

He was suddenly aware of every touch, every feeling, every sound. The grip on his hand that had never really went away, even after it had healed, was like a constant reminder of  _ Cas _ .  _ Everything _ was like a constant reminder of Cas. He was everywhere; in the slow beat of the rain on the window, each drop like a pigment leaked from Castiel’s eyes, and in the tawny curtains that seemed to be the exact same shade as the ruffled trench coat that’s been through just about as much as Dean and Cas have. Even in the lamp shade that had been knocked on the floor in Dean’s rage that looked to be the same deep stone blue as Castiel’s original, long lost tie that he had wore constantly for the first few years Dean had knows the angel. It even looked to have the same velvety touch that he had imagined in that very tie many years ago.

He was everywhere, so much so that it should have been nauseating. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t at all. It was comforting and it made Dean feel warm inside. Like a sense of security.

Because in Dean’s mind, Cas  _ was _ everywhere. And Dean’s not scared to admit that anymore. Because if Cas has taught Dean  _ anything _ for what felt like the lifetime he had known him, it was that Dean shouldn’t be afraid, shouldn’t be scared. Not of anything. Not of the ghouls and ghosts that threatened his life everyday, or even the simplest things, like if they have enough milk for Sammy’s cereal in the morning. But most of all, he shouldn’t be scared to be himself. And Dean will be  _ damned _ if he holds his own self back any longer.

Cas was right.  _ He  _ is his own weakness. And Dean won’t be afraid anymore.

“I have lost so many people, Cas. My parents… my brother, Ellen and Jo, Kevin, Charlie, Benny,  _ Bobby _ …” His voice cracked on the last name and he hated it because he felt like he couldn’t  _ breathe _ , he was so overwhelmed, and every part of his being hurt and he just felt so overcome with grief he couldn’t  _ see _ straight, but Cas just  _ has _ to understand what Dean is trying to say. He doesn’t even know if he can get it out for a few heart wrenching seconds, but then, to either his relief or dismay, it came tumbling out anyway. “Don’t make me lose you, too.”

Cas’ eyes softened into gentle bowls of blue. “Oh, Dean. I will never,  _ ever _ leave you. Not now, not ever. And I  _ promise _ you, you will never lose me. You mean too much to me, you know. This earth isn’t complete to me without you in it. In the many millenia that I have been alive, out of the many places I’ve been to, things I’ve seen, people I’ve met… you have always been my favorite.” Dean didn’t know what to do, couldn’t communicate, couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but widen his eyes when he saw Cas’ ever-bright eyes shed a tear. And it brought out so many different emotions in Dean.

Not once, in the ten years he had known this angel, has Dean Winchester ever witnessed him cry. Not once. Ever. And it made Dean want to reach out and shield him from everything bad in this world with all of the power of his being. It made his heart ache and his teeth clench and his eyes water. He wanted to hold him and protect him and tell him everything was going to be alright until he couldn’t feel the wetness leaking from his eyes anymore. He wanted to hold him until his clothes were sopping wet, and he wouldn’t care, as long as Cas was okay.

As long as Cas was okay.

And then something just clicked. In that moment, Dean knew. Maybe it was the way his soul handed out blind devotion and love and care to Castiel right then, how it had reacted, or maybe it was just that Dean realized that it’s always that way. That he always does that. The way his his heart would break itself in two if it meant that Castiel’s would be whole. It was like an instinct he never knew he had. Like it was engraved in his brain to comfort and protect and love Castiel. Maybe it was all of those that made it click.

Maybe it was none.

But whatever it was, Dean just  _ knew _ deep within himself that he is here  _ solely _ for Castiel. And that Cas is here for him. Maybe God specifically made them that way. Or maybe it’s nature, or fate, or whatever you want to call it.

Dean likes to call it home.

He knew, in that moment, that home wasn’t a place, but a feeling.

Castile was his home—a home he finally had, maybe he always had.

“Thank you, Cas, for sticking with me. I know it hasn’t been the easiest. And if you ever wanted to leave… do your angel thing… well, uh, you could do that. I don’t want you to feel like you’re tied down to me, Sam and me, like you have to stay, because I don’t want to hold you back. You’re an angel of the lord, and a damn good one if you ask me. You were made for better things than just, well, than just me.

The blue in his eyes flickered expressively and Dean had to fight the urge to cower back. “Since I’ve met you, everything I’ve done has been in part because of you. I can’t untie myself from you, Dean—not my heart or my blood or my mind or any other part of me. And I don’t want to.”

“You don’t?” Dean whispered. He couldn’t raise his voice any higher, for fear of it cracking or giving up how fast his mind was racing, or how much else he wanted to say but didn’t know how.

“I used to think being a good warrior meant not caring,” Castiel said. “About anything, myself especially. I took every risk I could. I flung myself in the path of demons and unholy creatures just because I could and I knew I could—everyone knew I could.” There was an uneven, reminiscing smile on his face, and memories Dean didn’t know of in his eyes. He couldn’t tell if they were good or bad. “But then I met you,” he started again. “You were strong and adamant and protective, and what made you a good fighter—a good warrior—was your heart and how much you loved your family. Sam, Bobby, it didn’t matter who. Your heart is full of loyalty and strength that I have never seen before, it was mesmerizing. It drew me to you. You would fight with every ounce of your strength—your  _ life _ , even—if it meant saving someone else. Most of heaven’s angels wouldn’t even do that. Love didn’t make you weak, caring didn’t make you weak, it made you stronger than anyone I’ve ever met. And then I realized I was the one who was weak.”

“No.” He was shocked. He never realized that Cas saw it, saw  _ him _ , that way. He was horrified that Cas thought himself weak. He is the most inspirational, strongest person, angel, being,  _ anything _ , that he knows. It kills him to know that Cas thinks of himself like that. “You are not by  _ any _ means weak.”

“Maybe not anymore.” Cas took a step forward, and it was like Dean could actually  _ feel _ his breath next to his, his presence something that he is constantly aware of. “I should have died today. I knew exactly what I was getting into when I stepped foot in that warehouse, and I never once regretted a second of it. I was  _ ready _ to die. I  _ should _ have died. I nearly did. But I thought of you, and I saw you there in front of me, watching me, and I knew that I wanted to live, wanted it more than I’d ever wanted anything, if only so that I could see your face one more time.”

Dean wished he could move, wished he could reach out and touch Cas like Cas was touching him, but he couldn’t. His arms felt frozen at his sides. His face was close to Cas’, so close that he could see his own reflection in the pupils of his eyes, the blue crashing like oceans around Dean.

“And now I’m looking at you,” Cas said, voice disbelieving, “And you’re asking me if I still want you, as if I could stop loving you.” Dean’s breath hitched as he inhaled, his heart sending sharp waves of emotion through his blood. “As if I would want to give up the thing that makes me stronger than anything else ever has. I never dared give much of myself to anyone before—hardly even the angels, my  _ brethren _ —but, Dean, since the first time I saw you, I have belonged to you completely. I still do. If  _ you’re _ the one that wants  _ me _ .”

For a second, time stood still. The world stopped turning and everything stood still as they were. The look of absolute devotion and love and pleading was stuck on Cas’ face, his blue eyes drawn and large, showing everything he was thinking clear on his face like a book, Dean reading its pages. It was beautiful in its own way. It was what Dean has wanted but never knew until now, and he felt like his heart was in his head because he could hear it beating and he was sure that Cas could too.

And then everything was over, just like that, and the world started turning again as Dean grabbed the front of his worn trench coat and pulled him against his aching chest. And then he was kissing Cas—or Cas was kissing him, he wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter. The feel of his mouth on Dean’s was electric; his hands gripped Cas’ back, pulling him hard against himself. The feel of Cas’ heart pounding through his trench coat made Dean dizzy with relief that he wasn’t the only one who couldn’t control the speed of their own heart.

He couldn’t speak even if he wanted to, he was sure he wasn’t even capable of forming words. So with each kiss, Dean told Cas something that he hopes he understands.

_ I’m yours. _

_ I want you, I’ve always wanted you. _

_ Thank you for caring about me. _

_ Thank you for not giving up on me. _

_ I can’t live without you. _

_ I’ll protect you. _

_ Never leave again. _

_ You’re my home. _

_ I hope I’m yours. _

_ You’re beautiful. _

_ I love you too. _

Dean couldn’t talk, and if it meant he would have to stop kissing Cas, stop feeling the sweet pressure of his soft lips, stop feeling the flick of his tongue against his, then he didn’t want to talk. In fact, he could never talk again and be perfectly fine with it. So for right now, unspoken words will have to be enough. He hopes that Cas gets that.

And he knows that he does, because in Cas’ mouth, he can hear the unspoken answers.

_ You’re mine. _

_ I want you, I will always want you. _

_ Thank you for giving me someone worth caring about. _

_ Thank you for not giving up on yourself. _

_ You won’t ever have to. _

_ As long as you’re safe. _

_ Never stop finding me. _

_ You’re my world. _

_ You are. _

_ You’re inspirational. _

_ I love you. _

It was different, and new, and exciting. He was kissing Castiel. He was kissing Cas! And they were talking but they weren’t at the same time and Dean doesn’t really know how that could be but he doesn’t really care because all he can  _ think _ about is the feeling of  _ Cas _ surrounding him.

It engulfed him and it was enticing and addicting and Dean couldn’t get enough, no matter how hard he kissed Castiel or how far his hands roamed, he would always, without a doubt, want  _ more _ .

Dean would always want more.

Even though he was practically high off the smell that was uniquely Cas, he could never have enough. He smelled faded cologne and shampoo and detergent, but underneath all of that was just something that belonged to Castiel and only Castiel. It wasn’t specifically anything, it was unique and infinitely masculine and something he had smelled for years, but not like this. Nothing like this. It was like the sweet scent the air got when it was heavy with rain, and right now it was pouring. It was like going outside and smelling fresh air after being inside and right now Dean hadn’t been outside for years. It was refreshing and beautiful and it made Dean want to pull Cas closer if he only could.

The dark surrounded him, but it was a safe kind of dark. It was calming, and the rain dancing on the windows made him relax into Cas’ touch. This was one of those moments where you feel infinitely hopeful and there’s so much joy in your heart that your chest aches and you can feel it as deep as your bones—filtrating your bloodstream. Dean wants to do everything with Castiel. He wants to see the world with him, he wants to protect him, he wants to love him until they’re both breathless and sweaty and exhausted but still lay in each other’s arms because at the end of the day there’s nothing that either of them would rather do.

Dean loves Cas, and he feels like such a fool for taking so long to realize it.

But it’s okay, because Cas loves him too, and everything is okay now. Cas’ mouth is on Dean’s and there’s electricity and sparks flying and a fire raging in his bones. There’s salt that Dean can taste from his tears, and he’s sure that Cas can taste it too, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters in this moment besides Cas and his lips and his invigorating scent that lingers seemingly inside of Dean and the trail of fire that Cas’ touch leaves behind—on his neck, on his face, on his arms and chest. He’s burning but he’s never felt more alive.

It should be toxic but it’s not. It’s anything but that. It’s a little piece of heaven that Dean is lucky enough to share with this angel. All of his senses and feelings are consuming him from the inside out, and Cas’ lips are doing things to him—mentally and physically.

And even though Dean swears they could have been kissing for hours, it had only been minutes, dragged out by the thoughts running rampant in his head. But as much as he hates to do it, Dean pulls away, breathless with a hammering heart, eyes sparkling and unfocused.

There are no words spoken between them, just unspoken thoughts and shy, nervous glances. Which is ridiculous, because Cas is his best friend, except… he’s not. Is he more than that? Are  _ they _ more than that? Dean thinks so. He hopes so.

Dean smiles just slightly when he sees Cas sneaking glances at him, like a shy, nervous puppy, and slowly pushes the angel towards the bed, kissing his neck as they go, drawing thick, low moans from Cas’ throat. It’s the most erotic sound that Dean has ever heard—he could do this for hours if it meant he could hear that one sound that sent shockwaves straight to his dick. And you know what? Dean  _ wants _ to do this for hours. Before this, sex has just been about feeling good. He didn’t take his time, it was just about making it to the finish line, even if his partner didn’t. But now… now he wants to relish every moment, he wants to savor all the groans and noises this angel makes, and he wants to hear him make them again and again. He wants to make Cas feel good, because that’s what makes  _ Dean _ feel good.

He wants to give Cas everything he has. No, it wasn’t even a want. It was a  _ need _ . A raw need that he felt deep within his bones and in his chest and straight down to his dick. It was insisting and he wanted nothing more than to give in to all of these feelings and let  _ go _ for once. He wants to make Cas let go too.

He hopes Cas wants what he wants, he hopes Cas feels what Dean feels.

Does he?

Dean lightly pushes Cas down onto the bed, blankets absorbing their raw heat. It was hot and erotic and downright fucking filthy because Dean’s never been harder in his life and they haven’t done a single thing besides kiss, and it made Dean want to do so many things to this man below him it was overwhelming.

But if Cas didn’t want this, it wasn’t any of those things. It wasn’t hot and erotic and filthy, it was Dean taking advantage of his best friend and he couldn’t  _ live _ with himself if he did that. So he pulls away, breathless and sweaty, and wanting nothing more than for Cas to say he wants this too.

Cas looks up at him with those crystal eyes, seemingly amplified in the dark, and Dean’s heart skips a beat. It’s wonderful and magical and the attraction is clear, but there’s a gnawing feeling in the back of Dean’s head and he’s not going to be able to do any of this if he isn’t sure about one thing.

“Do you want this, Cas? I mean, I don’t want to make you do anything you don’t want to, trust me, that is the  _ last _ thing I want. I don’t want to push you or make you uncomfortable or push you away or-”

And then Cas’ lips are on his again, except they’re gentler than before. They’re not hungry with desire or lust or anything like that. They’re gentle, and loving, and it makes Dean melt on top of Cas, shivers dancing down his neck.

“Of course I want this, Dean,” he whispers when they pull apart, though Dean misses it as soon as it’s gone. It’s dark enough that he can hardly see Cas’ face, but even if he couldn’t, he could hear the sincerity and earnesty in his voice that shone true in his features. “You’re all I’ve ever wanted. I need you.”

That’s all Dean needed for him to crash his lips against Cas’ again, licking along his bottom lip and sending tingles down his spine. It was pure electricity.

Dean was alive.

He’s never had a kiss this good, and he’s had  _ plenty _ of kisses. Dean couldn’t imagine the sex—imagine how absolutely mind-blowing it would be. It was too much for his brain to process, all he could think about was his throbbing cock, straining his sweats begging to be let out.

He could feel Cas’ whispering the same thing, hard and big, rubbing along his thigh; it made Dean almost drool with need, leaking cock doing the same.

So he satisfied its longing, thumbing one hand along Cas’ waist band, the other running along his cheek, creating friction among the stubble. Dean enjoyed every second of it, slowly sliding Cas’ pants down his legs, his wrist gently bumping his cock. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and grab it, feel it throb in his own hands, feel the velvety softness and the emanating heat. Just the thought made Dean’s dick leak with anticipation and his veins ripple with pleasure.

He began taking bits of clothing off, one at a time. His mouth left Cas’, kissing as he moved down his body. He kissed his inner thigh as he slipped his pants off, wet tongue dancing on hot skin. He took his fuzzy socks off too, smiling to himself with the memory of Cas’ joyous little smile because of these socks at the front of his mind. It was one of the many things Dean loved about Cas. It was the little things, not just what he looked like or what he wore. It was the things that made him happy, because they made Dean happy too.

And the things that pleasured Cas… pleasured Dean.

Like when Dean leaves hot kisses trailing his stomach, Cas breathes heavier, fists wrapping in the sheets, and when Dean slowly slides his boxers off, Cas actually  _ whimpers _ with pure, animalistic need. It makes Dean want to do things to Cas to hear that sound all night. Actually, he wants more than that. He wants to suck on his cock so hard that he moans, and he wants Cas to fuck him so hard that he can’t even speak. He wants Cas to feel good,  _ he _ wants to feel good.

Being with Cas always feels good.

Dean fumbles around in the dark for his trench coat, feeling for the texture, feeling for something to take off. But when he finally finds it, he hesitates, memories swirling, concocting in his head.

All of the times he’s touched this trench coat come swirling into his head, and his heart softens. Because none of the times he’s ever touched this trench coat have been quite like this. This time his touch is urgent but it’s careful, he’s experiencing things like he’s never experienced them before. Experiencing  _ Cas _ like he’s never experienced him before.

How come they didn’t do this sooner?

But looking down into those emanating blue eyes, reflections of the orbiting moon, Dean knows why. Neither of them wanted to lose their best friend.

But somehow, somewhere deep inside his chest where his heart resides, he just knows that this is a good thing. Cas is his now. Before, when Cas was in danger, it killed Dean more than  _ anything _ because he wasn’t  _ his _ to protect. It wasn’t his responsibility or his place to feel that way and it hurt Dean knowing that he couldn’t be anything but his friend.

But now, slipping his discarded trench coat onto the floor, and seeing nothing but his unclothed body lying above the warm blanket, he knew that Cas wasn’t just his friend anymore.

And it wasn’t just because they were minutes away from having sex.

It was the eye contact. It was the way they looked at each other—the way the moonlight bounced off of Cas’ eyes, making them look almost pastel, icy blue, like snowflakes falling. But they were warm and loving, not cold and biting like winter is known to be. It was because Dean is seeing more than he’s ever saw of Cas before—hard planes of chest and miles of skin; he’s seeing Cas vulnerable.

Dean doubts he’s ever layed willingly exposed underneath someone, completely pliable to their control. This is a first for both of them, because Dean has never felt more exposed either. Not even in the demons’ hold in that icy warehouse. But it was okay. Because this is Cas who’s seeing all of this—seeing all of  _ him _ .

Dean wants him more than anything.

Taking any remaining clothing off he slowly lowers himself down and gently kisses Cas, soft and compassionate, and gently flips them over, skin on skin. Cas was looking down at him, showing Dean bewilderment and confusement and awe.

“Dean? Wha-”

“Shh,” Dean whispers, entwining his fingers behind Cas’ neck and pulling him down for a soft, gentle kiss. “It’s okay, Cas,” he breathed. His perspective was different from down here, held underneath Cas’ strong arms. The moonlight hit his hair at just the right angle, making it look like he carried the shadow of a halo atop his raven-colored head. He could see his face so much more clearly now, his eyes of concern and the thinnest layer of sweat shimmering below his hairline and his arms. The pounding rain outside had slowed to a drizzle, allowing him to hear other things like Cas’ uneven breathing—he felt like he could actually hear his heartbeat if he really listened.

“It’s okay, Cas.” He said it again, he would say it a thousand times over again if that was what it took for Cas to earnestly believe him. He wants this, wants it more than the last slice of blueberry pie at his favorite diner, wants it more than a roof over his head, wants it more than his own safety. He wants it more than he wants to see his mom or dad again. He wants it so bad it’s like a primal urge or instinct or raw need inside of him—or it’s all three. It’s an itch that only Castiel can scratch. He wants this more than he’s ever wanted anything before, and it makes him anxious and nervous but happy all at the same time. It’s the kind of happy that makes you smile uncontrollably from the inside out, the kind that makes your cheeks hurt from the stretch of a smile gliding on your lips.

Yeah, it’s that kind of happy. And Dean doesn’t mind that kind of happy.

When Cas speaks, it’s gruff and breathless. He didn’t think angels could get winded at all. “Dean, are you sure about this? It’s not too late to stop-”

“Are you serious right now, Cas?  _ I’m _ the one that kissed you first. Of course I want this,” Dean interjected. How could Cas think he wanted anything different when he could probably feel his heartbeat running on overdrive.

“Dean, let me finish.” Cas’ tone was pleading and eyes imploring, begging. Dean would have stopped him right there, but something about the way he was looking at Dean, begging him to hear him out, made him mechanically nod his head as if Dean could have done anything else.

“I can’t do anything to make you hate me, Dean. Or lose what we have—the most important relationship in the millenias of my lifetime. If you want this too, then of course I’m one-hundred percent on board with this. I love you, Dean. And for an angel who isn’t supposed to feel anything at all, that’s pretty extraordinary, don’t you think? I care about you, I care about your well-being, I care if you’re safe, I care where you sleep at night, I care how your day was, I care about  _ you _ . It’s always been you, Dean. If you don’t want this, then now’s your chance to say it, because if you don’t, then there  _ is _ no going back, because I don’t think I have enough self-control for that. And I can’t do anything to lose you. I would do anything if it meant keeping you happy, and if making you happy means forgetting this and never speaking to you again, well, I could do that for you. Whatever you want, I’ll do. I’ll do anything for you.”

“You say that you would never talk to me again, that you would just disappear if that was what I wanted, like I could actually handle that. Do you want to know what I want, Cas?” He was still looking down at Dean, never taking his eyes off of him, not even for a second, like if he looked away there would be bed sheets and pillows beneath him, but any and all traces of Dean wiped away.

He nodded, and Dean nodded back reassuringly. Looking into those crystal eyes, he could think of a thousand things he wanted. An old trench coat, rainbow fuzzy socks, blue ties, snowman mugs and hot cocoa, movies and hotel rooms, rain pattering the windows. But all of those led to one thing. “I want you.”

“Okay.” That was all he said, but that was all he had to say. Because they both knew that this was happening, right now, and there was nothing they could do to change the fact that they’re being brought together in a hotel room in the middle of the night at this very moment. Not that either of them would want to, though.

This was it. This was happening right now. And neither of them would change it for the world.

Cas leaned down then, and fiercely crashed their lips together, Dean gasping in shock and moaning into the rawness, the openness, of it. “Grab. The. Lube,” Dean breathed in between kisses and slips of tongue.

And then, as if it was never there, the heat above him was gone, replaced by cold darkness. But as soon as it was gone, the warmth returned, the view of his own erection replaced by another. There were hot lips on his again, and he could smell the unique smell of Cas in the air around him, the unscrewing of a cap echoing somewhere in the darkness sounding magnified to his ears.

The pressure on his lips was gone as words filled his ears. “Tell me if this is okay, all right? I don’t really know how to… this is, uh… kind of my first time doing something like this. With another man.” Dean didn’t have to see him to hear the sheepishness and embarrassment coursing through the angel’s careful, delicate voice.

“It’s okay, Cas. Just do whatever you’re comfortable with. I promise you won’t hurt me, just go slow, okay? You’ll do great.”

There was silence for a few moments, and then Dean felt a warm, slick prodding touch working its way between his cheeks. He tried to relax and take a deep breath, which he knows is what he should do, but the truth is, Dean’s never done this with a guy either, and he sure as hell hasn’t had anything up the hole Cas is opening up right now. He didn’t know what to expect, he didn’t know if it would hurt, and if he’s being honest… he’s kind of scared. But  _ Cas  _ is the one that’s touching him right now. And he trusts Cas more than anyone. So when Cas lays back on top of Dean and he feels the beginnings of a pushing pressure around his hole, he lets it in and opens up to it, opens up to  _ Cas _ and lets him take the lead.

Dean can feel one slow, gentle finger slide inside of him, gliding tenderly and agonizingly slow, nudging back and forth, his one finger making a small rhythm to let him adjust.

But adjust to what? Was he supposed to pick just one thing? There were so many things he needed the chance to adjust to.

Adjust to this feeling inside of him, like he was being filled, almost uncomfortably, but just not quite there. Adjust to this new sense of pleasure that was setting his nerves alight with electricity, this feeling that made his mouth part around Cas’ and his hole part and flutter around his finger. Adjust to the fact that this was Cas’ mouth on his and this was Cas’ finger inside of him right now, and this was Cas lying atop him, making his mind go crazy and his heart even more so.

Maybe he didn’t mind any of those. But he was definitely grateful for his chance to adjust to one finger as Cas added another, just as slow, building the walls of pleasure in his stomach.

“Cas, oh…,” he moaned into the angel’s neck, making the hair there stand on end and send chills rippling down his spine. Dean felt the angel above him physically shudder. “Feels… oh, yeah, right there… feels so good, Cas… make me feel so good, Cas.” Cas groaned, loud and clearly self-restraining, just the pure gruffness of it made Dean grind his hips up into Cas’ above him.

“Stop talking like that, Dean, or I’m not going to be able to control what comes next.” The words hung in the air with the implied intent, but that is  _ all _ that Dean wants. He wants Cas to lose control and bang into him until the headboard or the bed breaks—whichever happens first. The fingers inside of him rapidly picked up speed, and Dean wanted more of whatever Cas could offer him.

“That’s exactly what I want, Cas,” he breathed, his heart going so fast it was like it was pumping the pleasure to every part of his body, even his toes, which were curling at the end of the bed. Cas groaned as he started to attack Dean’s neck, licking and kissing and sucking and biting everywhere he could reach, making Dean’s back arch off the bed and his body slam into Cas’ own sweating, heaving one. “I want you to lose control, I want you to fuck me with your big,  _ hard _ cock until my eyes roll into the back of my head and my toes curl and I can’t even scream, can’t do anything, because it feels so good.” Dean’s hot breath is going right into Cas’ ear and he physically whines in pure need, his cock leaking and throbbing. “Don’t you want that, Cas? Don’t you want to feel good?”

Dean is playing with him and he knows that, but Cas doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest as he groans through the conflict raging in his head. “Of  _ course _ I want  _ everything _ you said, Dean, but what if I hurt you? I can’t hurt you.”

Dean brings him down into another kiss, but this one was reassuring, conveying words that didn’t need spoken. “It’s going to feel so good, Cas. For both of us. I’m ready,” he said, referring to the fingers still slicking lube inside his hole. “I need you now.” And it was true. Dean did need him. But this time he was saying it out of unalloyed, animalistic pleasure, raw and open and messy and hot. He needed Cas to finish what he started.

Cas looked down at him with his flashing blue, the only color in the dark night. Dean was lucky enough to actually see the shift in them, going from concerned to lusting, giving in to the part of him that just wanted to fuck Dean with everything he had.

He pulled his fingers out, and Dean immediately missed the fullness. It was like he had felt one way for his entire life, and now that he had discovered something new, something exciting, he had forgotten what it was really like to live without it. He didn’t realize how empty he had felt—how unnatural. He didn’t like the incompleteness he felt without Cas inside of him. 

But then there was a bigger pressure at his opening, something way larger and thicker than fingers. This is what Dean has been waiting for all night, and he wants it so badly he’s nearly shaking with anticipation.

The head of Cas’ cock slides in, slicked from lube, and it’s already much wider than what Dean had been prepared with beforehand. There’s a stinging sensation—a slow, plodded burning—inside of Dean as Cas slides himself deeper and deeper inside of Dean. It’s painful, much more so than the fingers, but Cas has enough recollection and self-restraint left to know that he has to go slow. Especially for Dean, who’s as tight—tighter, even—as a virgin.

After what felt like an eternity of Dean tightening his jaw and clenching and unclenching his fists, Cas stopped once he had bottomed out, using everything he had within himself not to thrust his hips for Dean’s sake, who was fighting back a whimper of pain as he was stretched from the inside out, fighting his body’s will to fight the intrusion.

For a moment they just stared at one another, emerald and sapphire mixing together in the darkness, reflecting, but at the same time molding as one. Dean felt Cas start to slowly move his hips, slowly out and then back in, and Dean hissed as the stinging pain came flaring back.

“Dean I’m so sorry, do you want me to stop? Did I hurt you? Dean-”

“Shh, Dean winced as he brought a finger to Cas’ lips, silencing the next words out of his mouth. “I knew it would hurt, but I think the worst of it is over,” he breathed, shutting his eyes and taking a deep breath, as the pain morphed into the welcomed, newly-familiar feeling of completeness. “Just take it slow for now, okay?”

Dean saw Cas nod his head, and then felt him start to set a slow, steady rhythm. Slowly out, slowly in. Slowly out, slowly in. The pain was gone now, transforming into the familiar pleasure that lit up his nerves and veins, rubbing the walls inside of him, making his entire existence feel good.

“Oh, Dean, you’re… God, you’re so tight. You feel so good,” he groaned as he began to slowly pick up the pace, asking without words if this was okay, asking to keep going, asking to keep making Dean feel good.

“ _ Keep going, Cas _ .” Even though the question was never verbally asked, Dean knew that Cas needed the reassurance. Maybe he needed it too.

And so he kept going, losing the slow static, and now fully banging into Dean, both of them groaning in the back of their throats, pleasure erupting in their veins.

This was a totally new feeling to Dean. He had never been on the receiving end of sex, but he definitely will be again, because who the hell knew it felt this good? The headboard was slamming into the wall, thudding into a steady rhythm with every thrust. Dean was moaning, something he had never experienced in this degree before. Everything just felt so good, and when Cas reached between their sweating bodies to grasp Dean’s cock between his fingers, working him up and down, Dean almost lost it. Eyes rolling into the back of his head, mouth opening and spilling incoherent words, Dean was in total bliss. He wrapped his legs around Cas’ back, pulling him in deeper, pulling him in for more.

It was something they would both always want.

More.

They craved it—craved more. More of each other, more of the other’s smell, more of this pleasure, more from their friendship. They always, in the end, got more.

And so Dean wrapped his arms around Cas’ neck, feeling the slick skin with his own and holding on like he couldn’t let go. Cas’ mouth was on his neck, tracing seemingly invisible patterns of what only Cas could see—of what only he could feel. The path his tongue left was as effective as a trail of fire—burning, hot, devastating. Teeth grazing down to the collar bone, gently biting down, making Dean shiver and shake, limbs sinking into the mattress like quicksand, taking hold and gripping on. Dean was too full and felt too good to do anything about it.

And just when he thought that this was too much, that he would combust from all the pleasure boiling in his blood, Cas lifted his hips up slightly, and a whole new wave of pleasure coiled and unleashed inside of Dean as Cas, buried deep inside of him, hit one spot way deep down that made his eyes roll into the back of his head and bite down on Cas’ shoulder, too engulfed in the pleasure to even stop to think about what he was doing.

Cas groaned—from pleasure or pain Dean didn’t know—and thrust himself harder and faster into Dean. He was vaguely aware of a high-pitched whining in the distance, but wasn’t alert enough to register that it was him that was making that noise, and it wasn’t coming from another room or somewhere outside or even from the angel above him.

“Cas,” he panted, trying to fight off the inevitable as its presence came crashing down on him, “I’m gonna- I’m gonna come, Cas.” He could feel it, coiling inside his belly, fighting to overtake the sensitivity of pleasure, fighting to overtake his vision and his hearing and everything around him.

“Me too, it’s okay,” Cas said, struggling between thrusting his hips faster, talking, jerking Dean off, and fighting off the need threatening to take hold any second. “Come, Dean. I’m right behind you.” 

That was all it took, like Cas snapped his fingers and made the magic happen. Like he said “Jump” and Dean asked “How high?” It was a chain reaction, that’s all he could say. One second he was looking up at Cas, sweaty and exhausted, but still going, and the next, his eyes were being forced shut as his muscles shook and spasmed, cock throbbing out his pent-up release, a blinding white light strobing behind his eyelids.

Not even three seconds later did he feel Cas’ cock twitch inside of him as he let go all of his release inside of Dean. He felt everything, the new warmth inside of him, the part of it that was leaking out as Cas pulled away, leaving Dean open and bare.

He immediately missed the fullness as soon as it was gone, just as he had missed Cas’ fingers. But this was more of an ache. Not an ache that brought pain, it was just an ache that made his chest tighten in longing. Even though Cas was right above him still, he missed him irrevocably.

He had never felt his sort of miss or long before. He didn’t want Cas to leave, even though Dean knew that he was being stupid and clingy and that Cas wasn’t even thinking about it to any degree, he still felt this need to just lay here with Cas in his arms and not let go, not even if he had to pee.

And so before Cas could say a word, Dean pulled him down beside him and their arms wrapped around each other, so quickly it was almost instinctual, and fought to get under the blankets, sheets strewn and abandoning any order.

Once they were settled, Dean gently rested his head on Cas’ chest and just listened to his heartbeat, the slowing  _ thump-thump, thump-thump _ that relaxed his own racing one. His head moved in-sync with Cas’ chest as it slowly moved up and down, almost lulling him to sleep if he weren’t so wide awake.

He didn’t mind the slight coat of sweat beneath his head or the slow seep of sticky wetness leaking from his ass and onto the mattress below. It wasn’t the matter at the front of his mind right now, he’s not even sure it would be in the morning. He was just so overwhelmed with so many different varieties of emotions he couldn’t even say anything that expressed it all.

Thank God Cas said it for him.

“There’s definitely a lot of things that I haven’t been able to tell you, or rather, didn’t know  _ how _ ,” the angel began, entwining his slim fingers in Dean’s hair. “There were a lot of different components to all…  _ this _ ,” he gestured vaguely to the two of them with his free hand, as if that could summarize what they were or what just happened. But it was the best they could do for now. “I didn’t know how or what you felt. I didn’t want to ruin our friendship. I believe we had something special, even without the sex and punched-in walls,” he chuckled, the vibrations reverberating through his chest and massaging Dean’s temples. “You are my  _ person _ , you are the one being—human or angel—that I know I could trust with anything, no matter what. You are the person I go to in times of need and distress, and the same goes for you.  _ I’m  _ your person too. We need each other. And I know that what just happened could change things, it will  _ definitely _ change things, but I want it to be for the better. It  _ has _ to be for the better because if you walked out that door right now and didn’t look back, I wouldn’t be able to do anything but just lay here. I wouldn’t be able to hear or see anything but the memory of your back walking out that door haunting me for the rest of my lifetime. It would be worse than dying, worse than constant agony or torture. Because my existence without you is meaningless. I want to spend eons with you, Dean Winchester. You are a part of me, you always have been, right from day one. I saw something in you, and ever since…,” he trailed off, taking a deep breath. “You have changed me for the better, you’ve made me see the world differently, made me see everything in color and vibrancy and see the good in things and in people. I owe all of that to you, Dean.  _ You _ showed me how to be better, how to be good. And I can’t do this, life, I mean, without you supporting me every step of the way. I’m here for good, Dean. And I know all of this is scary and overwhelming… but please stay with me too.

Dean couldn’t breathe, his chest was tight. That was exactly everything Dean was feeling, and Cas had somehow found the words to say it. Somehow found the words that Dean couldn’t.

For the first time in a long time, he knew he wasn’t alone.

“I promise to love you for the rest of my life, Castiel.” His heart was thudding so loud he’s positive Cas could hear it, the only sound in the room besides the tapping of rain against the window and their mingled breaths, colliding into one. Everything else was quiet, nothing making a sound—even the fans remained still. Everything was quiet besides his mind, screaming so many different things he couldn’t even distinguish them himself. He wouldn’t be surprised if Cas could hear that too. Maybe even feel the intensity of it.

“No. I promise to love you for the rest of mine.”

Somehow, just the thought of Cas loving him until the end of time, made him anxious and his breath stutter, catching in his throat. In one way or another, that was the worst and best thing Cas could have ever said. Dean would love Cas until the day he died, he knew, but Cas lived on forever. Did Dean even deserve to be held so high by someone so pure—forever? What would happen when Dean died? He wouldn’t live forever, he knew, and the day that death reaped his soul would be the day that Cas died, too. Even if he was still there physically, he would never be there mentally again. Dean knew that, and he couldn’t help but feel selfish, or like he was taking a part of Cas that shouldn’t be taken.

“You deserve heaven, Cas. You deserve everything you love—clear skies, apple trees, honey bees—anything and everything. You  _ will _ be in my heart forever. But the difference between you and I is that  _ I _ don’t live forever. You do. I can’t ask you to carry the grief, the burden, of my memory with you until the end of time. Love me now, and I will love you back endlessly, but there will come a time when I won’t be with you anymore, and I can’t hurt you by making you think of the hurt you feel everyday. Because you deserve heaven, and everything it has to offer.” Dean was sure he would have shed a tear if he hadn’t let them all fall earlier in the night. But the moisture in his eyes was real, and so was the dryness in his throat, telling him to let go.

“Don’t you see, Dean? This is heaven. Right here, right now. In this little room, this is heaven. My heaven is with the man I love. It could be in the pouring rain, or the desert, and it would still be  _ heaven _ as long as you’re there. I have lived in heaven, and none of it, not angels, not unticking time, not the brightness, not even  _ God _ can compare to you.  _ You _ are my home and you are my heaven, indefinitely. And so yes, I  _ will _ love you for the rest of my life. Because you’ll always be here, even if you’re not. Because you are me, as much as I’m me. I told you earlier that you have changed me into who I am. I meant that. Because who I am is you too.” Cas tightened his grip in Dean’s hair and wrapped the other around his chest, pulling Dean in to his warmth, pulling him into safety. “I will love you until I take my last breath, Dean. I meant it when I said that a world without you is a world not worth living in. You are my world, Dean, and my heaven, and the things I love most about Earth is  _ you _ . I love  _ you _ , Dean Winchester. And that will never, ever change for as long as I live.”

“I love you too, Cas.” It turns out he was wrong about having no tears left to cry, because they flowed freely now, down his nose and cheeks and then spilling onto Cas’ chest. If he felt them, he didn’t mind—just pulled Dean’s head in closer and allowed him to smell the earthy smell that was uniquely  _ Cas _ . That made him feel a little better, and he gripped Cas’ sides tighter, keeping him rooted to the spot. It’s not like he was going anywhere, anyway. He never would. And Dean knew that now. He wasn’t afraid of Cas poofing out of here the second he closed his eyes. He knew that he would be here, watching over him and keeping him warm and protected.

Cas gently ghosted his lips across Dean’s forehead, the quiet echoing in their ears. Dean felt good. And he felt safe, too, lying in Cas’ arms. It felt like, that just this one time, things went right for them. That it was all going to be okay.

After that, there was only silence. But it wasn’t a bad thing—it was relaxing. It engulfed the two of them together, intertwined, two hearts beating as one in the safety of the darkness. Neither one of them minded.

_ If you just listen, silence has more power to heal and to connect than any words possibly offered. They have that kind of silence _ .

_ This silence was more of an answer than the meaning of any words. _

It was left unsaid that Cas showed up in the warehouse in the first place tonight because he felt the distress, the longing, radiating from Dean, polluting the air like a scream. His distress had physically hurt Cas, feeling pain and cold and lonely just as much as Dean had. Because Dean’s emotions were his emotions. Dean’s feelings were his feelings. They were connected, but neither angel nor hunter had to say the words aloud to know they were true. To finally understand this connection between them.

Cas was right earlier, Dean thinks. This, this right here, is what heaven feels like. This  _ is _ their heaven, right here in this little room. Dean goes to sleep thinking that, his eyes drifting closed but not wanting to leave reality yet. The last thing he remembers is Cas whispering in his ear, “My strong, strong Dean. You’re safe now,” and Dean thinking,  _ because I’m in heaven with you _ .

If someone would have told Dean he would one day feel the heart of heaven, feel bliss and forgiveness, he would have called them crazy. Because he knows things that good don’t come true for a man like Dean Winchester.

But they would have been right. Because here he was, in heaven’s arms, feeling like the world is actually seeing him for the first time. They were right. He found heaven. He found where he belongs. He found his home, his  _ angel _ , and Dean could finally go to sleep at night not worrying if he would wake up.

He found what he was born for.

Castiel could still feel Dean’s longing, even now, as Dean’s breath evened out looking into the eyes of sleep, mouth parting slightly, unconsciously tightening his grip on Cas, who watched his every move. In every beat of his heart, he heard words spoken to him, whispered in unconsciousness. Though Cas knew already.

Thump-thump.  _ Cas. _

Thump-thump.  _ I love you. _

Thump-thump.  _ Forever. _

**Author's Note:**

> This does not have a beta, so please excuse any mistakes or sloppiness made. If you're interested in being a beta, please feel free to comment or message me. Thank you :) I hope you enjoyed and definitely hope that you'll stick around for more of what's coming. I couldn't do this without you guys <3.


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